


Changing Destiny [slash version]

by Nadja_Lee



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Abused Faramir, Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hurt Faramir, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Prophetic Visions, Protective Boromir, Protective Siblings, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:28:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 129,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22815472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadja_Lee/pseuds/Nadja_Lee
Summary: This A/U novel is based on the movieverse and assumes Aragorn and Boromir are only a few years apart in age, and Aragorn has grown up in Denethor's household with the Steward's two sons.As Aragorn reaches adulthood, forces are allying against Gondor, forcing Aragorn to flee to Rivendell, where he learns what it means to be a king and discovers his true feelings for Boromir. When he returns to Gondor many years later, he finds Boromir a changed man, his heart closed to all save Faramir. While Boromir journeys on a Quest for his father, Faramir joins the Fellowship in his brother's stead. Through adversity, Faramir learns his true strength, his own grand destiny and discovers love, as Aragorn and Boromir discover the meaning of kingship, love and sacrifice.[This novel was printed as a zine in 2008. It appears online for the first time here. It was written in 2 versions: slash and gen/het (you can read the gen/het version here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22834402). This is the slash version]
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Arwen Undómiel/Legolas Greenleaf, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 851





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> According to Fanlore this is one of my best fan novels; take that as you wish ;)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Aragorn came to meet Denethor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Toshihiko Mizushima for the cover art.  
> Thanks to Bast for helping me improve this novel with her kind suggestions. Thanks to my editor, publisher, artists and Jenn Miller for kind encouragement from start to finish. You have made this story possible.  
> Warnings: Tons and tons of hurt/comfort. Takes creative freedoms with LOTR movie lore. Be in particular aware that Aragorn’s date of birth and childhood has been changed, and Faramir’s abilities to receive visions, their usefulness and connection/impact on and to Sauron have been enhanced. Also, this novel mentions sex, war, thoughts and attempts of self-mutilation, child abuse and some general violence.  
> Pre story author’s notes: Thoughts are in italics. Elfish language is between stars. Remember again that this is an AU on the movies; not the books so a lot of the book information will be changed or disregarded. If you cannot accept the fundamental changes this novel makes (for example that I place Aragorn’s day of birth as only a few years before Boromir) then you shouldn’t read the novel. This is an AU; you must be able to read it as such to enjoy it.

#  **Prologue**

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, had always known his life would not be like any others. Living in Gondor close to the border to Rohan, near the river Entwash, Aragorn had led a sheltered life. As a young boy he hadn’t known why his parents had chosen such a remote location, but his parents had been loving to each other and to him so he had not questioned it.

He had had a simple but loving upbringing. His father had taught him about the game of the forest, of hunting and respect towards the very creatures he would be killing. His mother had taught him about poetry, art, songs, and love, holding her Elvish literary collection so dear Aragorn’s father would tease her and say she loved it more than she did him.

This life had been all Aragorn had ever known, but when he had turned 14, his father had taken him aside and had, in a serious tone of voice, told him of a legend of old. A sword broken, a crownless King…all would once again be healed when the world returned to how things had been destined to be. Aragorn had nodded seriously while his father had spoken, though he had wondered why this legend was told to him with such seriousness. His unasked question had been answered when his father had smiled and put a hand on his shoulder, telling him he was the crownless King, the man who would one day rule all of Gondor, which was currently lead by the Steward Denethor.

Aragorn had accepted his father’s words as fact and one of the reasons why his parents lived remotely in order that the once and future King would be protected. However, he had paid the news little mind; his simple life went on, and knew the legend might not be fulfilled in his lifetime but in his son’s or that of his son’s son.

It was not until tragedy stuck that the legend came to Aragorn’s mind once more. While he had been out hunting with his father, the small house his father had built for his wife and only child burned to the ground during a strange and sudden lightning storm. The fire took his beloved mother, Arathorn’s dearly treasured wife, with it as it burned to the ground.

Upon returning, Aragorn had been heartbroken and distressed, falling to his knees beside the burnt out remains of his childhood home, the tree still burning embers. Crying softly, not knowing what to do, Aragorn had turned to his father, but he had been like a man possessed, not seeing the plea for help and guidance in his son’s eyes.

“Stay here and guard your mother,” he had asked through tears before he had left, disappearing back into the forest.

Aragorn had taken the request to heart and had stayed close to the burnt out house but soon the house was only ash flying to the wind. It was autumn, and winter with its cold winds was starting to set in. As days passed, Aragorn stopped his longing looks towards the forest and made a small grave for his mother, burying some of the ashes there as no body remained. He built a small shelter close by the ashes of his home and still he waited. The weather grew colder, the nights longer yet still he stayed, hoping, praying, to see his father appear.

It was not until some riders from the Riddermark stumbled upon the frozen and weak boy that he left, even then they had to convince him to come with them. The time alone had left him confused and absorbed in his own sorrow, his pained thoughts his only company till now. Despite his joy at finally seeing people, at being taken care of, he had been hesitant about leaving behind the only home he had ever known . All he had left was his father and how would he find him if he left? One of the riders had reassured him that he would be well cared for, that he didn’t have to worry anymore, and had wrapped him in his warm cloth. After Aragorn had gathered his few belongings the rider had lifted him up on his horse and they had started to move out.

“Who are you, young man, and what are you doing so far out alone?” one of the riders had asked him as they had made ready to move out after having stopped for nightfall.

Aragorn had found comfort and safety with the riders and felt more at peace now that he knew someone was there to take care of him. He had eaten, warmed himself and had slept – his exhaustion, both mental and physical, over his ordeal meant he till then had barely spoken at all. His grief was still there, a constant ache, but it wasn’t overshadowing. He was able to gather his wits and thoughts around him once more. Aragorn had replied to the question by telling of his father, his noble and brave bearing told to the riders with such a look of admiration, trust, and loyalty only a son can hold. Of himself he spoke little but plainly, for he was yet young and had not much of a tale to tell. He avoided mentioning his mother; the pain was still too fresh.

The riders then told him that they had known his father for some time. He had joined them in battle against daring Orcs. Arathorn had explained to the riders that he was sure it was the evil forces of Mordor that had taken the life of his wife by conjuring up a magical and deadly thunderstorm and thus he now wished to battle Mordor’s forces any way he could. The riders had not believed him, but he had been a great warrior so they had let him fight with them. Arathorn hadn’t spoken much with the riders and had kept to himself. The riders had suspected his mind had suffered from the loss of his wife to the point where all rational thought was gone, but as long as he fought the enemy they kept a respectful distance from him.

Just as Aragorn’s eyes and heart had filled with hope and joy at hearing of his father, his hopes had been crushed when the riders told him that he had recently been slain. His last words had been the name of his wife and a plea for the riders to head west into Gondor, towards the place where his heart had been burnt. Here they had found Aragorn and they had followed Arathorn’s dying request and had brought Aragorn his father’s sword.

Aragorn had been unable to hold back tears at the news of his father’s demise. He had held the sword tight to his chest and felt like his life had shattered. He had no one else. He was all alone now. Despair and grief filled all his senses, his every thought. He had no doubt his father had been right about Mordor, and with tears running down his cheeks and pain in his heart, he had vowed to avenge his parents. Yet the flame of revenge was not enough for him to keep going, and he was lost. He didn’t know what to do or where to go.

The riders had asked if he had other family and Aragorn had forced himself to reply through the haze of pain that had enfolded his mind and heart once more. His parents had been all he had had; he had nowhere to go and nowhere to be. Not sure what to do with a frozen, weak, and devastated 14 year old the Riders had clothed him warmly and fed him, while debating what to do next. Aragorn was vaguely aware of the debate but still in shock and thus he felt distanced from everything – even himself. The rider who had first taken care of him suggested he and his wife could take him in, though like most, the last many years of growing unrest in the land had meant his family was left with few resources.

“He is a child of Gondor, let Gondor rule over his fate,” one rider had suggested and the others had agreed with his words. Surely the best thing for the young man would be to be raised among his own people. Aragorn had accepted the suggestion; his grief was still so strong that he did not care about his own fate.

So, it came to pass that Aragorn, son of Arathorn, was taken to Minas Tirith, the capital of Gondor, the city of Kings, to which he had never before travelled, and was brought before the ruling Steward.


	2. Aragorn Arrives In Minas Tirith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn arrives in Minas Tirith

## Chapter 2: Aragorn Arrives In Minas Tirith

During the journey to Minas Tirith, Aragorn had, thanks to the riders’ care and kind encouragement, managed to once again get his sorrow under control. The shock had passed and the pain in his heart mercifully lessened just a little each passing day. Slowly but surely life began to interest him once more and he began to pay attention to his surroundings and what was happening around him. 

Upon seeing the city for the first time, Aragorn found Minas Tirith lacked the grand and breathtaking appeal his father had told him about when he had spoken of the city. The beauty and timelessness that he had talked about with awe and longing in his voice eluded Aragorn. The city seemed dark and worn. The colours, sunshine, and life that his father had mentioned with fond remembrance seemed to have dried out.

All but one of the riders had said their farewells to Aragorn outside the city walls. It had been an emotional goodbye and Aragorn had had to find all his courage to let them go and not ask to go with them. They had been kind to him and had become his one safe haven in his new life and the uncertainty of his fate made the moment even harder. Thankfully the rider who had taken such kind care of him from the beginning as if he had been his own son, had taken him all the way to the foot of the palace, right beside the dead White Tree, the symbol of Gondor. He had spoken with kind and encouraging words about his future and had embraced Aragorn tightly in farewell. He had offered to go with him to see the Steward but they had both known Aragorn would stand stronger if he went alone; more a man than a child. At Aragorn’s brave assurance he would be fine, the rider had wished him a long and prosperous life and had galloped out of the city. Aragorn had watched him disappear in the distance, forcing down his feelings of insecurity, abandonment and fear. Aragorn felt as if his grim thoughts were fuelled by an uneasy feeling of darkness which lay over the city like a shroud and which seemed intensified in the palace. He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts and with his head held high, his fears and insecurities pushed to the back of his mind, he approached a Gondorian guard and requested he be taken before the Steward.

The guard led Aragorn through the palace which indeed was impressive with high ceilings and many beautiful statues; the remains of a lost royal era. Though Aragorn was as far from home as he had ever been, seeing it all was strangely like coming home.

The guard asked Aragorn to wait outside the throne room on a beautiful white stone bench surrounded by statues, and he had done so, wondering what the Steward would be like. He owned few possessions, as most had burned in the fire, but what he owned he had wrapped in a blanket and it sat beside him on the bench. He had made sure to dress in his nicest clothes and wash before entering the city, yet still his clothes were clearly forest clothes compared to the townsfolks’, and even more so when compared to the guards and people moving about the palace.

Aragorn again reminded himself that he had to be on his best behaviour. If the Steward did not accept him, he did not know where else he would go. Fighting off his nervousness as one hour of waiting went by, he purposely took up the only book he had managed to save, one of his most prized possessions despite fire having eaten at the cover and the corners. He began to read the Elven tale, written in the Rivendell Elven tongue, and while doing so, remembered his mother who had often read with him and for him, with bittersweet fondness that made tears come to his eyes.

“His Lordship will see you now,” the guard came back and said, his appearance forcing Aragorn’s thoughts out of the book and his memories. Aragorn put the book away and followed him into the large throne room, holding his precious bundle with his belongings in his embrace.

The throne room was breathtaking. High ceilings, smooth stone floors, and many detailed and impressive statues. Aragorn admired it all with awe as he was escorted to the end of the room where an older, big-boned man sat in a large chair, wearing a long, warm, and decorated cape over his finely decorated clothes. He had long hair that was beginning to turn grey at the edges, and a hard face, his lips drawn back into a snarl as if he always expected bad news. There was a certain sadness and rawness to the Steward’s look, as if the world had tried to break him several times and he was now holding on with his fingertips, fighting everyone who came near him, friend or foe, no longer able to see the difference. This earned him Aragorn’s sympathy. He had the impression this man had not smiled or laughed in a long time. There were other people in the room, a few older men. Judging from their clothes, they were advisors, noblemen, or generals. They had all moved to one side of the room to give Aragorn space to be presented and were too far away to hear the introduction of him or anything else that would go on between the Steward and his guest though they would be able to see it. Behind the Steward’s chair stood a man half-hidden, silent but watchful. His eyes were warm and strong and he seemed some years older than the Steward. He seemed to counteract the Steward’s hard and dark look with one of sympathy and curiosity. From his position at the Steward’s side, Aragorn guessed he was the Steward’s advisor. He dismissed them all as unimportant for now, focusing on the man in front of him.

“Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Your Lordship,” the guard presented him with a bow for the Steward and as the Steward waved at him in a dismissive gesture, the guard bowed once more and left the room.

Aragorn kept his eyes on the ruler of Gondor as he gave him a respectful bow, keeping one hand on the sword he had inherited from his father, to make sure it wouldn’t get in his way. 

“I was told of your arrival, lad,” the Steward said with a frown as if the news had annoyed him. He looked Aragorn up and down, measuring him and apparently found the boy dressed so plainly, he found him wanting in many yet somehow satisfying ways, judging from the way his frown eased up.

Aragorn knew what he would see looking at him. He was strongly built, fit from a life in the wild, and tall for his age. His hair was dark, almost black, and reached his shoulders. It hung loose and framed his face, with its strong forehead and pale blue eyes. He had a strength to his face few boys his age had. Though his clothes were plain, he had a strong and proud bearing and his face was handsome and expressive when he allowed it to be, his soul reflected in his eyes.

“I hope I may be allowed to serve Gondor in whatever way you see fit, Your Lordship,” Aragorn said respectfully, hiding his annoyance at the Steward’s disrespectful address of him. Though he was no King, he was from noble roots and deserved a better address than that of a small child or a plain farmer.

Denethor looked thoughtful, as if considering the best course of action, his eyes resting on Aragorn. “Very well,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You may live here, at the palace and I shall raise you with my sons.” He paused. “Mayhap your presence will improve the performance of the youngest for nothing else has,” he ended, his voice and eyes hard and cold.

Aragorn was shocked that a father would speak so disrespectfully of his own kin, and then a son, in front of an audience even if said audience were softly talking among themselves and wouldn’t be able to hear the words that transpired between the two of them. The ease with which the Steward had made the remark made Aragorn think the others in the room were probably used to such comments.

Aragorn schooled his face and voice to betray nothing of his emotions. No matter what, he now had a place to be, somewhere to belong and being raised with the Steward’s sons was a high position to be given. He felt relieved and grateful that his future seemed secure, safe, and comfortable. “I thank you, my Lord,” he said, and gave another bow.

The Steward’s face hardened even more as he replied, “I know well the inheritance that Arathorn claimed but you shall find no support for such mad ramblings here.”

Aragorn’s hand formed a fist at his side and his hand on his sword handle tightened at this comment. He had to hold himself firmly in check not to jump to the defence of his father’s memory. If his father had said he carried the line of Kings within him then Aragorn knew he did. However, what he should do about it he did not yet know.

Denethor apparently didn’t notice Aragorn’s inner struggle, caught up in his own thoughts as he went on, knowing his voice wouldn’t carry across the hall to the people standing in the far corner, talking quietly, “I shall call you... Strider, a ranger’s name and you may tell no one of the name of your birth. Is this understood?”

Aragorn hesitated, some of the relief at his secured future fading. Besides the guard who had introduced him then no one would know of his true name. He held the rangers in high regard but to take on a ranger’s name on command instead of the one given to him by his parents was not an order he took lightly. On the other hand, he needed Denethor’s protection until the day where he was of age and had been educated in books and sword well enough to lead his own life – a life which might include challenging Denethor for his birthright. Staying here, being raised with Denethor’s two sons, would give him more than defending his family and his own honour would. For now he had little choice.

“It is understood, Your Lordship.” Aragorn was proud of himself that he could say this so calmly, betraying none of his emotions or his feelings of humiliation and defeat, his eyes never leaving the Steward’s.

Denethor looked momentarily disappointed that Aragorn had not given him the victory of seeing him fight with his command, which made Aragorn strangle a smug smile.

“Furthermore, you will claim your parents were peasants killed by Orcs and if naming them never name them truly,” Denethor went on, his voice still not carrying across the space of the hall.

“No.” His voice was calm but inside Aragorn was furious. There was no way he would deny his own father; his inheritance.

“No?” Denethor asked with a raised brow, looking shocked at his defiance.

Aragorn looked him straight in the eyes, not backing down. “No, Your Lordship. I will give you my word that while I am in your charge I will never mention my name, my parents, or my lineage, not even if asked, but I will never name them falsely.”

Denethor and Aragorn fought a battle of wills until Denethor looked away from Aragorn’s piercing gaze and made an irritated hand movement. “Then give me that vow and be done with it.”

“I give you my word, Your Lordship, and my word is my bond,” Aragorn vowed.

Silence fell over the room until Denethor waved at him with an irritated hand movement as if he was an unwanted insect.

“Leave. Ask one of the guards outside to take you to my son, Boromir’s, room and explain your business to him. He will know what to do.”

Aragorn bowed once more. “Thank you, Your Lordship,” he said, and quickly left the room, thinking that he had never made an enemy as fast as he had in Denethor, the man he now had to obey as a father. Yet despite everything he felt more at peace now that his future was settled and he had a place to be. Still, if the father’s behaviour was anything to judge by, Aragorn did not look forward to meeting his son Boromir. Therefore it was with a sigh that he asked a guard outside the throne room to lead him to the young Lord’s chambers. 

Unknown to Aragorn, Denethor was thoughtful, looking after the young man who had just left.

“Is Your Lordship sure you wish to foster him? We have received word that Lord Elrond of Rivendell has offered to take him in,” the Steward’s advisor, who had been standing silent behind his Lord, now asked, concern for the young charge in his voice and face.

But Denethor wasn’t looking at him.

“I considered it but he claims to be of the line of Kings and some might believe that claim. Through the years I have learned to keep my enemies closer than my friends.”

“He is but a boy,” his advisor protested.

“A boy who will soon grow into a man,” Denethor said darkly. “I can try and take the King out of the boy but the man will still remain and I wish that man to serve me; not challenge me.”

“I shall make sure he takes lessons with your sons,” the advisor said after considerable silence.

“Yes... and do not let him know anyone else offered to take him in, especially not that cursed Elf,” Denethor ordered harshly. He needed Aragorn on his side, needed him to feel obligation and gratitude if nothing else. Maybe, if he played his cards right, his strongest defender, after his son Boromir of course, would be Aragorn. And if not… if Aragorn showed himself to grow into an enemy, he would deal with him as he did all enemies of Gondor; he would get rid of him, one way or another.

The advisor gave an inaudible sigh, sympathy for the young man in his voice as he replied, “As you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback and/or kudos would be loved so if you are enjoying this novel please let me know.


	3. Meeting the Steward’s Sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn meets the Steward’s sons

## Chapter 3: Meeting the Steward’s Sons

“Stay and face your destiny!”

The loud command, spoken with authority and steel echoed through the hallway and made Aragorn look worriedly around, one hand tightening around his sword. He cast the Gondorian guard leading him towards Boromir’s chambers a searching look but the guard looked undisturbed, which made Aragorn relax a little though not completely.

“Lord Boromir’s room... Sir,” the guard said, apparently not sure how to address Aragorn. He had been the one to introduce him and knew the name Aragorn to have noble ties, but Aragorn had gently corrected him when he had addressed him as Aragorn, asking him to call him Strider instead, on order of the Steward.

They had stopped before a large wooden door, the nearest door some distance away, indicating this was a large room; in fact it seemed to be the largest on the hallway.

“Do not get into trouble for the sake of my dignity,” Aragorn said softly and the guard nodded, relief shining in his eyes.

“As you wish... Strider.” The guard bowed for him before he left, leaving Aragorn standing outside Boromir’s chamber with his bundle of possessions under one arm and his right hand still resting on his sword handle.

“Ahhhh!” The youthful scream of a young boy echoed through the hallway, coming from inside the room Aragorn was standing in front of. He was now sure the command he had heard had also come from Boromir’s room. Without thinking of the consequences of storming into the room of the Steward’s oldest son, Aragorn dropped his bundle on the floor, kept his hand on his sword handle and crashed into the room.

The scene that met Aragorn’s eyes made him act on instinct, thinking with sadness that his darkest fear about the Steward’s son had been proved right.

A young boy around four was standing on the finely made bed, dressed plainly but in fine clothes, looking horrified at a boy around Aragorn’s age, maybe a few years younger than his own 14 years. Both boys were strongly built with aristocratic features, the oldest possessing green eyes like opals and the youngest with soulful eyes as blue as a summer sky. While the young boy’s face, even now when masked in terror, was friendly and warm with kind eyes, the older boy’s face looked more reserved, harder, and his green eyes sparkled like cut green glass. Unlike the young boy, the older boy was dressed more finely, his robes decorated with colours and stones that sparkled in the light of the candles which were lit in the candle holders on the walls and standing around the room.

Aragorn looked from the young boy to where the older was standing at the end of the bed, on the far side of the room. He was pointing a wooden sword towards the young boy threateningly.

Without thinking, acting purely on instinct, Aragorn quickly reached for the young boy on the bed, lifted him into his arms and put him on the floor behind him, taking out his own sword in one swift motion, his other hand holding the boy behind him and pressed against him.

“Boro!” the boy cried from behind where Aragorn had positioned himself protectively in front of him. Aragorn didn’t believe it was possible to move as fast as the young man, whom Aragorn had figured out had to be Boromir, did now. In a matter of seconds, Boromir had dropped the wooden sword, reached the real sword that had been resting on top of the desk, drawn it, thrown the scabbard on the floor and crossed the room in less than 3 steps. The tip of his sword was now resting against Aragorn’s throat as he eyed Aragorn up and down, noticing his plain clothes.

“Unhand my brother, peasant, and I shall grant you a quick and painless death,” Boromir promised darkly, his green eyes as dark as if a storm was raging in them.

Aragorn had managed to raise his sword so it was resting close to Boromir’s stomach, his other hand still pressing the young boy close to his legs and keeping him behind him, his body a shield.

“I am no mere peasant, Lord Boromir, but Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” Aragorn said, not sure if he should believe Boromir’s words and if they were true how to resolve the dangerous situation he suddenly found himself in. _The vow to the Steward cannot include his own children who, surely, will already know my true name_ , Aragorn thought, hoping it would calm Boromir’s temper.

Boromir didn’t even blink. “I shall make sure your name is carved on the stone marking your grave,” he said darkly.

“Boro!” the young boy cried again, sounding truly afraid .

Realising the situation was truly starting to get out of control, Aragorn fought to find a safe way to resolve it. He felt relieved for both the boy and himself that he had apparently misunderstood the situation. Now, however, he just had to convince Boromir that he was no danger to them. In an effort to try and relieve the tension, Aragorn tried to explain, letting his body and voice soften. “I thought the boy in danger.”

“He is never in danger when with me. I would give my life so he would live,” Boromir said solemnly, and in his eyes Aragorn read the truth of his words. In that moment he gained a measure of respect for the young man for this loyalty if nothing else.

Aragorn nodded in response to the words. He was now convinced this was a young man of honour and integrity. Still, his heart beat wildly in his chest when he slowly lowered his sword to the side and let go of the boy. “I apologize for my error in judgement.”

The boy ran to his brother and Boromir embraced him one-handed, keeping his sword on Aragorn but sparing his brother a quick look to assure himself he was unharmed. Relief floated in his eyes before he returned his full attention to Aragorn.

“Who are you who enters my chambers uninvited?”

“I apologize; I had naught the right. I thought the boy in danger and acted to protect him.”

“It was a game. Boro would never hurt me,” the boy said, trying to step away from his brother, but Boromir reached out his free hand, blocking his way towards Aragorn and the boy obediently stayed behind the raised arm.

“What business do you have in these halls? Access to this floor is restricted,” Boromir asked with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

“Your father has generously taken me into his family and asked me to locate you,” Aragorn said politely, hoping he could create a bond with the Steward’s sons that could help make the coming years easier.

Boromir looked at him for a few seconds, his expression thoughtful. “If ever you try to harm my brother I shall cut you down where you stand,” Boromir said evenly, his voice strong and his eyes like steel.

Aragorn knew the words were not a threat but a promise and he nodded. “A reasonable demand.”

Boromir seemed to consider whether or not he thought Aragorn sincere but apparently decided he was speaking truth in his silent vow not to harm that which was so precious to his heart.

Boromir lowered his sword and Aragorn put his own back in the scabbard. As the weapons disappeared from view, so did the tension from the room like rain from the sun.

With the tension gone Aragorn had time to notice his surroundings. Boromir’s room was large, with three doors, one leading to the hallway, the one he had just used, and two leading to connecting rooms. The room also had two large windows facing the palace’s garden as well as a large bed, a desk with a chair, a wardrobe, a cupboard, and a bedside table. All the furniture was of the finest wooden design filled with extraordinary details and various fine candleholders and decorative items were visible around the room. Aragorn had never been in a city and had never before seen such glamour and luxury.

“So, you are **that** Aragorn,” Boromir commented and his words betrayed that he had not only heard of Aragorn’s coming, but also of his family’s claimed lineage, and his voice clearly said that he doubted Aragorn’s claim to the line of Kings.

“Your father commands my name from henceforth be Strider,” Aragorn told him, again having to fight to keep the emotions out of his voice as he talked about it. The pain of his loss was fading but it was always close to heart.

Boromir’s eyes narrowed.

“He would,” Boromir mumbled before he turned around and picked up the sword scabbard from where he had thrown it to the floor. He sheathed the sword with one fluent motion before he laid it back on the desk. Then he turned back to face Aragorn.

“My name is Faramir. I am four years of age. Boromir is my brother, 8 years older than me,” the young boy told Aragorn with a friendly smile, as if already forgetting the fright Aragorn had given him.

Aragorn shook the boy’s offered hand.

“A pleasure,” Aragorn said with a smile before Faramir withdrew his hand again.

“My brother is the bestest swordsman in all the land!” Faramir continued proudly, making Aragorn smile and wish he had had siblings...which, thinking about it, he guessed he had just gotten. The thought made him smile in hope that he could create a new kind of family here.

“The best, little one,” Boromir corrected him with a smile, ruffling his hair as he came to him. Boromir turned his attention to Aragorn. “My father must wish you to sleep in this wing for him to send you to me. My brother has the room to my right, you may have the one to my left.” As he explained, Boromir went to the door at the left side of his room and opened it, Faramir close behind, followed by Aragorn.

“It is a nice room,” Aragorn commented as he looked around his new room. It was about half the size of Boromir’s room and had one window also facing the garden as well as a smaller-sized bed, a smaller wardrobe, cupboard, a desk and a chair as well as a bedside table. Everything was finely made and the room was pleasant and well kept.

“It will do,” Boromir agreed while Faramir looked around interestedly, his face showing his excitement at all the new things happening around him.

“Come. I shall help you settle in,” Boromir said and laid a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder as he passed him going back into his own room to search for Aragorn’s belongings in the hallway. Aragorn gave a small smile, which grew wider as Faramir trustingly took his hand and led him back into his brother’s room.

 _Maybe my years here in Gondor’s palace will not be as terrible as I had first feared_ , Aragorn thought with a hopeful smile.


	4. Family Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner with Denethor

## Chapter 4: Family Dinner

The three boys had spent the few hours till dinner time getting Aragorn’s room ready, Boromir having the servants supply him with pen and paper for his desk, the maid to make the bed and clean the room more thoroughly and put candles in the candle holders as well as supply him with matches.

“We dine with my father whenever he is in the citadel,” Boromir explained as they walked through the castle towards the dining room.

Faramir had a firm grip on his brother’s hand and looked more uncomfortable walking to a quiet family dinner with his own father than he should, which made Aragorn wonder if there was something he should know.

“Is it customary to change?” Aragorn asked, trying to straighten his plain clothes. These were his finest clothes: a white shirt made from fine material, dark pants and boots. The warm shirt he had over the white one was also dark but fine and warm. He had managed to save little in the way of clothes.

“Only if you have been sword practicing or other such activities. Then a bath and a change would be advisable,” Boromir told him with humour in his eyes, trying to lighten the mood for his brother who gave the expected smile though it seemed forced.

“I did not discuss this with your father but I need to know how much I am expected to provide for myself,” Aragorn asked plainly. Growing up in the wild, he was not used to the double talk of court life that his parents had told him about and from what little he knew of it, he felt sure he had no taste for it either.

“In what way? I am quite certain you are expected to attend classes with my brother and me as well as meals and other activities,” Boromir told him as they turned a corner and neared a large wooden door, a guard on either side. At the sight, Faramir held on tighter to Boromir’s hand, who gave a reassuring squeeze.

“Clothes for one.”

Boromir stopped, forcing Faramir and Aragorn, who had walked beside him on either side down the corridor, to do likewise. “He does not keep his youngest with new clothes. Why should he do so for the man who thinks himself King?” Boromir’s voice was plain and frank, not threatening but simply making a statement.

“I see.” Aragorn was silent for a few seconds, shocked by this news. Though it was common among people of lesser means to buy new clothes only for the oldest and have the younger inherit, it was unheard of in wealthier families. “Your brother seems finely dressed to me,” he comforted, thinking the financial strain the unrest near Mordor’s borders had put on all of Gondor could have touched the Steward’s family as well, though the logic behind the lack of priority on the Steward’s youngest child escaped him.

“I keep him in clothes. My own old ones and that which have belonged to a friend’s brother. Sometimes, not often, I have enough coins on me to be able to buy something new for him.” Boromir paused before he added, almost as if he felt he needed to, “The conflict with Mordor swallows more and more resources. My father believes the war effort and other matters to be of higher importance than this.”

It was obvious to Aragorn that admitting he had to let his brother wear used clothes was a humiliation to him, and his eyes told Aragorn that he did not agree with his father’s reasoning. This fact eased Aragorn for anything less would have shattered the image he was forming of Boromir; an image of a young man he could see himself one day calling brother.

Aragorn looked to Faramir but he didn’t seem to understand what both older boys did; it was an insult to let the son of a Steward wear used clothes, no matter the reason or how fine or new they appeared. Even if it was any father’s right to raise and treat his children in any way he saw fit, Aragorn had never known any other way of upbringing than his own, and though he had never had any siblings, Aragorn knew his father would never have treated any child of his in a similar fashion.

“No one who was not told will know,” Aragorn assured him, and Boromir nodded, relief in his eyes.

“Take steps to keep it that way,” Boromir said as he started to walk again, making Faramir and Aragorn do likewise.

Aragorn nodded his agreement, knowing if this were common knowledge, the servants and anyone else who saw Faramir might think less of him. Faramir had been nothing but sweet and kind to him, and Aragorn would do nothing to humiliate or hurt the young boy.

“Agreed.”

Aragorn’s next worry was for himself; he had no money and did not expect to be given any which would make it difficult to find new clothes for himself. For now though, he let the concern lie.

They had reached the large door and the guards opened it for them. “Not a word of this to Father,” Boromir whispered under his breath at Aragorn who let his confusion at the request show, not sure why Denethor would be angry that his oldest son provided his youngest with clothes, but nodded agreement none the less.

“Boromir! My son!” Denethor said with a smile as they entered, Boromir in the lead.

The Steward rose from his chair at the head of a large and finely decorated wooden table and went to his oldest son, smiling as he stretched out his arms towards him. Boromir smiled back as he let go of Faramir and crossed the distance so he could embrace his father.

At the sight of his father, Faramir had stopped where Boromir had let go of his hand, looking lost, but at the sight of the embrace, he began to smile and reach out his arms towards his father.

“Papa,” Faramir said happily, unconsciously using the childish title to gain his father’s attention as he began to walk towards him.

Aragorn remained where Boromir had left them, unsure of what to do and suddenly feeling very out of place. He had to fight down a renewed wave of loss and grief as the scene brought back memories of his own father.

“Come, dine with me,” Denethor said as with an arm around Boromir’s shoulders, he walked back towards his chair. Four plates had been set up, Denethor’s at the end of the table and then three after each other on one side instead of what Aragorn would have thought; Denethor sitting with a son on each side of him. He assumed the setting could be a leftover from when Faramir had been younger; few fathers wanted to have to deal with infants and in particular not the practical side of it.

Faramir stopped his walk towards his father as he saw him move away and back to the table with Boromir, not even sparing him a glance. Boromir looked at him over his shoulder with a lost look as if his father’s arm around his shoulders was a weight holding him down.

“Boro?” Faramir whispered, tears in his voice as he was left behind. Feeling sorry for the young boy, Aragorn went to him and picked him up, supporting the boy’s light weight on his hip.

“This sure is a grand room. Do you dine here every night?” Aragorn asked Faramir softly as he carried him to the table, smiling widely at him, trying to make him forget what had just happened, with his free hand indicating the impressive statues, the fire pits positioned around the room for warmth, and the impressive large chandelier holding many lit candles raised high above their heads. In his concern for Faramir, Aragorn’s earlier grief over the loss of his parents faded back into a bittersweet ache in the back of his mind.

Faramir nodded. “Most of the time. Sometimes when father is away, I eat with Boro in the kitchen. I enjoy that a lot,” Faramir told him in a whispered tone, letting Aragorn remove the sadness from his face.

“I am sure you have a very skilled cook,” Aragorn said as he put Faramir back down on the stone floor beside the chair next to Boromir’s. Both Denethor and Boromir were now already seated and talking together. Denethor raised his hand and one of the servants who had been standing up against the wall, as silently and still as the many beautiful statues, now moved to the far end where there was a small door in the opposite side of the room from where they had entered. Not long after the servant had disappeared than he reappeared, a maid with a tray of food walking behind him. The servant returned to his place up against the wall and the maid began to serve the Steward.

Faramir and Aragorn couldn’t have been more plainly put in their place when no looks or piece of conversation fell their way, but Faramir didn’t seem to mind or find it odd. After Aragorn had wiped the boy’s tears away with his shirtsleeve, Faramir seated himself and silently waited for the maid to serve his father and then his brother.

When the maid reached Faramir, she seemed unsure who to serve first; Aragorn who was older, or Faramir who was the Steward’s son. Seeing that Denethor and Boromir were eating and talking about stately affairs and Boromir’s progress in various areas, Aragorn smiled reassuringly at the maid.

“Serve the young Prince first. I am but a guest in this house.” His own words reminded Aragorn that he would never truly fit in here yet somehow he was not as sad about this fact as he thought he would be. Boromir and Faramir’s presence promised to provide him with all the belonging he needed and doubted he needed anything else. He had his memories of his own parents and had no desire to see them replaced.

The young servant girl smiled, obviously relieved at having been spared the dilemma, and served first Faramir and then Aragorn before she disappeared. Aragorn noticed that the Steward and Boromir had been served wine by the maid, but Faramir and he had not been served anything. He was pondering how to raise this issue without making a scene when the maid returned and poured water into Faramir and his cup. Both cups were finely made though not decorated with jewels the way Denethor’s and Boromir’s were; a common difference to indicate who was considered a man and who a child as well as differences in status. She blushed in embarrassment as she filled Aragorn’s cup with water, well aware that he was way past the normal age where a young man was offered wine, but he smiled reassuringly to her.

“We all have our orders,” he said softly and she nodded, once again obviously relieved that he understood this was not ill-intentioned from her side. Aragorn glanced at Denethor for a second and though the man never glanced at him, Aragorn was sure he knew his eyes rested on him. Denethor was trying to show him his place, show him who was Steward, who had control here. Show him that though he thought himself a future King he most certainly wasn’t one. Did he really think Aragorn would try and take Gondor from him? That he would plot against him now, trying to find a weakness? Well, if he did, Aragorn just had to prove he was wrong, prove that he was not an enemy. He had to be on his best behaviour, he again reminded himself. He could not afford to create enemies now.

As the maid disappeared once more, Faramir and Aragorn began to eat, and Aragorn let his musings lie for now. The dinner tonight was a stew served with a lump of bread and it was as delicious as food from the Steward’s table should be. Aragorn couldn’t help but cast glances around the table and saw Boromir give his brother a brief smile once in a while but otherwise his father demanded his full attention. Faramir seemed to find this normal, for he ate quickly and in silence. Aragorn wondered if all their meals would be like this, for he hoped that would ensure they were all over fast. There was an atmosphere of tension and formality over the table that Aragorn had never felt or been a part of before. His parents had loved each other and had encouraged their only child to participate in any dinner conversation they had, listening to his arguments and contradicting them only if they felt his arguments did not add up. He was, however, well aware that such lack of formal, respectful distance between parents and children was rare.

“So, young Faramir, what do you like to do?” Aragorn asked him, forcing a smile. If they were both to be treated as invisible children, an insult Aragorn knew he could carry easily enough, he could just as well try and get to know his new ally better.

Faramir looked momentarily shocked that anyone would address him during dinner but then smiled, apparently happy to have someone take an interest. “I like to read and write... I like the flowers in the garden, and the horses. And the dogs,” he said happily, joy and amazement that anyone would ask him what he liked clear in his voice and eyes.

“You can write at this tender age?” Aragorn asked with awe. “Your father must be very proud of you.”

Faramir shook his head sadly and his face fell, making him look like a lost puppy, making Aragorn regret his words. “He says words are for womenfolk.”

Aragorn put a calming hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “He is wrong. I, for one, love words.”

“You do?” Faramir asked, brightening at once at the thought that the older boy said his passion was all right.

Aragorn withdrew his hand and smiled as he nodded. “I have a book of Elvish poetry and stories with me. If you wish we could read it together,” Aragorn offered.

“I love the Elves,” Faramir admitted with a whisper as if he had been told it was a bad thing he had just admitted to. “But I cannot read their language. It is beautiful to look at; so many curves and lines.”  
  


Aragorn smiled at this. “I shall teach you then.”

“You know the language of the Elves?” Faramir asked in awe, his eyes wide.

Aragorn’s smile widened at Faramir’s sweet fascination. “The Elven race has many languages. I speak merely the language of the Rivendell Elves.”

“Have you ever seen an Elf?” Faramir asked, his excitement not dampened one bit.

“Sadly, no, for I admire them greatly and would be honoured to do so,” Aragorn admitted, and he saw how Faramir’s face fell. “But,” he added, and Faramir looked excitedly at him once more. “There is a legend that says that the powerful Lady of the Golden Wood wanders the woods close to where I grew up every night when the moon shines full and white.”

“Who is this Elven lady?” Faramir asked, enchanted by Aragorn’s story. Seeing the boy’s joy in his tale Aragorn reasoned that the untrue tale would be forgiven him should he ever meet the powerful Elven lady.

“She is an Elf as old as time, as powerful as a storm, and as beautiful as a spring flower.”

“Would she come to Gondor or could a mere mortal like me travel to her?” Faramir asked eagerly, moving as close to Aragorn as he could come while still staying in his seat as if to be sure he didn’t miss any words from his lips.

“You could travel to her realm of the Golden Wood but caution...the Wood is closely guarded by skilled Elven bowmen, commanded by the brave and faithful Haldir.”

Faramir shone like a sun, fully into the tale, when suddenly Denethor’s voice broke the spell Aragorn’s words had weaved around the young boy.

“I will not hear any talk of those cursed creatures around this table!” Denethor boomed, waving his cup around threateningly. His hard words made Faramir crouch back in his chair in fright while Aragorn met Denethor’s hard gaze head-on. “The Elves care only for themselves and are a race filled with treachery and sorcery. They cannot be trusted.”

“They can too! They are kind and magical!” Faramir insisted stubbornly with the heat of a child who was defending his heroes.

Denethor’s eyes narrowed and he put his jewelled cup back on the table. “Are you defying me, boy?”

Faramir’s sudden courage disappeared in the light of his father’s dark eyes upon him and he tried to pull so far back into his chair as if he wished it would swallow him whole. His face went white in fear and he bit his lower lip to prevent tears as he shook his head.

“N... No, Sir.”

Aragorn looked from one to the other, shocked by Denethor’s harshness and he got a bitter taste in his mouth at the thought of why Faramir could be so frightened just by his father’s raised voice. His own father had always treated both his mother and he with honour and kindness and he had never raised his voice at either of them without it being justified, nor had he ever punished his son without good reason and, mostly due to his mother’s intervention, the punishment had never been very severe. However, his father’s disappointment in him when he acted badly was the worst punishment and he had always done his best to bring honour to his father’s name and make himself worthy of his mother’s faithful love and support.

“He meant no offence. The Elven race merely fascinates us both, Lord Steward,” Aragorn said softly, calmly, as he laid a comforting hand on Faramir’s back.

Denethor looked even angrier though Aragorn hadn’t thought that possible. “How dare you talk against me at my own table, Strider?” he thundered, spitting out the ranger name as if it was a curse.

Faramir tried to hide in his seat and pulled closer to his brother, who ignored him, but before Aragorn could get angry with him, he saw that Boromir had found and now held his brother’s hand under the table and only looked indifferent to his brother’s distress to anyone who could not see the hidden gesture.

“I apologize though I—” Aragorn began calmly, wanting to express his confusion as to what he had done wrong. He had never had to apologize so many times before, and then in one day, and though he was not an arrogant man, he was still a proud man. He would easily apologize if he found it justified, but Denethor seemed to purposely twist every word to their darkest possible meaning.

“Father, you were talking about your orders for Gondor’s rangers and how to defend our eastern border. What place does Rohan take in this strategy against Mordor and the bloody threat She represents? Could we count on their assistance in a possible attack?” Boromir interrupted Aragorn’s calm and soft words, all his attention seemingly on his father but Aragorn could see he was still holding Faramir’s hand under the table.

Denethor seemed to consider how to respond for a few seconds but then his eyes left Aragorn, and as they returned to rest on Boromir, they softened as did his face and body language. He began to reply, and Aragorn realised Boromir’s diversion had worked.

After a few seconds, Aragorn felt himself relax once more and the meal resumed. Soon also Faramir began to eat again, letting go of Boromir’s hand now that he felt the threat was over.

The rest of the meal passed uneventfully with Faramir restarting their conversation about the Golden Lady, keeping the conversion low and soft and first speaking when Denethor and Boromir were fully into their own debate once more. Aragorn kept his voice low out of respect for Faramir’s safety, not sure what Denethor might do, although he felt like talking loudly and clearly to show Denethor that he was not cowered.

Leaving the dining room had gone more smoothly than entering; Faramir had been tired after the long meal and caught up in Aragorn’s tale. To make things easier, Aragorn had picked Faramir up so when Denethor had embraced Boromir and wished him a good night, Faramir had done nothing more than reach a hand towards them.

As soon as they were out of the room and the door had fallen shut behind the three boys Aragorn had wordlessly handed Faramir to Boromir. After hugging his brother, Boromir had told him that he was getting too old to be carried like a baby and had put him on the floor. Faramir hadn’t minded but had excitedly told Boromir Aragorn’s Elven tale to which Boromir had responded with patient and overbearing amusement. Boromir had then put Faramir in his room and had asked Aragorn to wait in the hallway. Aragorn had patiently, though curiously, waited but when Boromir returned after Faramir was safely in bed, he had not spoken a word but simply followed him to his room, stopping outside the door. Thinking he might have changed his mind about speaking with him, Aragorn laid a hand on the handle to his room and was about to say goodnight when Boromir spoke.

“Aragorn.” His voice stopped Aragorn from entering his chamber.

Now that Boromir had spoken, Aragorn turned to look at him, aware that the slightly younger boy had spoken his true name even though he knew his father did not wish him to use it.

“Lord Boromir?” Aragorn prompted politely when the young man fell silent, seemingly to search for words.

“What you did for my brother today...” he began softly but then fell silent. With a shake of his head he shook off his discomfort and offered Aragorn his hand. “I shall call you Aragorn whenever it is possible,” he vowed, and Aragorn knew there was much more to Boromir’s words than what he said and maybe one day those words would have an even deeper meaning.

“Thank you,” Aragorn said, his voice heartfelt, taking Boromir’s offered hand in a warrior’s grip, hand around the wrist. His words also said more than what they appeared to and as their hands fell apart, Aragorn felt like their simple words had covered more ground about their hopes for the future, for each other, and their opinions than a million words would have.

With a small and rare smile, the kind Aragorn had already seen he normally only reserved for Faramir, Boromir left and entered his own room. Aragorn looked after him thoughtfully for a few seconds, before he entered his own room, the door falling shut with a soft but powerful sound.


	5. Attending Class

##  Chapter 5: Attending Class

After a good night’s sleep, Boromir had knocked on Aragorn’s door around dawn. It was a time Aragorn was used to rising so he had fully enjoyed the morning ride Boromir and he had taken, even though they hadn’t spoken more than a few words to each other but had simply enjoyed the freedom of nature. When they had returned, Boromir had awoken Faramir and they had all eaten breakfast in the kitchen since Denethor was in a meeting. Boromir had also assured him they rarely took any other meal than the evening meal with the Steward, a fact that seemed to reassure the Steward’s sons as much as it did Aragorn.

That meal had been much more enjoyable than dinner the night before. The conversation had been light and dominated by Faramir’s excited fairytales about Elves, dragons, and noble knights. After that they had gone to class where they were now, the sun having moved to show it was close to noon. Aragorn and Boromir were seated at each of their seats before a small wooden desk while Faramir had been allowed to leave his chair and was now drawing while sitting on the window bench, looking out over the city through the tall window.

After meeting Denethor, Aragorn had feared all his new teachers would be as unpredictable and cold towards him as Denethor had been, but at least this teacher, Master Terialas, was kind and acknowledged that Faramir was not able to keep up with Aragorn and Boromir.

Despite that, Denethor did not provide separate teaching for Faramir so each subject could be directly made to fit his age and progress, so Master Terialas would try and give him easier assignments and more breaks. Aragorn was glad that his mother, born and raised to nobility with all its privileges, had taught him well in the arts of books and scientific knowledge which enabled him to, with hard work and concentration, follow the teachings fitting the highest of Gondor’s nobility.

Aragorn had quickly found that Denethor’s demands of his sons were exhaustingly high. He had still to decide if Denethor had unrealistically high demands of his youngest since, though Faramir was an intelligent boy, there was no way he would be able to follow the teachings befitting those for a 12 year old. Or if he simply did not think about his young son long enough to consider he might need separate schooling. After dinner the evening before, he was leaning more towards the latter explanation.

“This is a waste of time. With such fine weather we should be outside riding, fencing, sword practicing, or any other manly activity. Instead we are cooped up inside like children and womenfolk,” Boromir complained to Aragorn, his whisper not quite a whisper. He eyed their teacher with a look meant to kill as he nodded towards one of the room’s two windows, showing the day was turning into a sunny day, ideal for outdoor activity, the autumn weather mild and inviting.

“I hear someone else in your voice,” Aragorn whispered back in reply to Boromir’s whispered complaint, his eyes and attention on the middle-aged teacher standing in front of them, explaining the finer works of various Gondorian writers from this and the earlier Age. As he listened and followed the teacher with his eyes, Aragorn would on occasion take notes with his pen on the paper lying before him to remind himself of the teacher’s highlights. Aragorn found this class more fascinating than the military history class they had had earlier in the day though Boromir obviously felt just the opposite. Still, both boys did their best to excel in both classes.

“What do you mean?” Boromir whispered, leaning towards Aragorn’s desk.

“Those words are your father’s; not yours.” He might not know the Steward very well but he was sure he was right in this assumption about the man’s taste.

“Mayhap they coincide,” Boromir replied but his voice was not as strong as it could have been.

“Boro, see what I have written!” Faramir interrupted them, smiling excitedly as he pulled on his brother’s sleeve to get his attention and showed him a piece of paper which Boromir read with a smile.

“It is wonderful. Why don’t you show it to A...Strider?” he quickly corrected with a look at their teacher. They were not alone so even though their teacher was kind, it was not safe to speak in front of him, for he was, after all, in the Steward’s employment.

“I will. Here.” Faramir gave Aragorn the paper, smiling brightly over his brother’s praise.

Aragorn scanned the paper. The letters were clumsy but readable.

“Edilor was an Elf. He got lost in the Golden Wood. The fine Lady found him. His mother came to get him. They went home and all was well,” Aragorn read out loud. At Faramir’s anxious look he smiled reassuringly. “This is a great story and you have very few spelling mistakes. Show it to Master Terialas. I am certain he will be impressed. I certainly am.”

Faramir smiled happily as he ran to their teacher who had patiently stopped talking and allowed the display.

“He is very talented with words. Is he as talented with other arts as well?” Aragorn asked Boromir as he watched Faramir excitedly show his tale to their teacher .

“He has talent in drawing as well, though what good it may do him I know not,” Boromir admitted with a sigh.

“You are not proud of his talent?”

Boromir gave him a piercing look. “I am always proud of him.”

“Yet?” Aragorn prompted, feeling there was something Boromir was not saying.

“His passion for books and painting will do him no favours when he takes his destined place as a leader of Gondor’s armies, facing waves of Orcs.” He paused, frowning before he went on, “This passion of his will leave him soft in the face of danger; I fear my father is right about this.”

“Compassion in war is not a weakness but a strength that separates us from the very enemy we are facing,” Aragorn said softly.

Boromir did not reply but looked thoughtful before he returned his attention to the notes on his paper and the book they were talking about. Faramir returned to his seat after encouragement and praise on his writing from their teacher and he continued his lecture. Aragorn looked at Boromir for a few seconds, a small smile on his lips before he too returned his attention to his studies. Yes, he saw much he liked in both boys, and despite the ordeal the evening before had warned him dealing with the Steward would become, he still faced the future with hope.


	6. Sword Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys practice fighting

##  Chapter 6: Sword Practice

Boromir got his wish fulfilled. A little after the three boys had eaten lunch in the kitchen, they had gone outside for sword practice. Faramir was too young, but Boromir had crafted him a wooden sword and he tried to mimic his brother’s movements as he stood on the sidelines, watching the two older boys practice.

Their teacher for this physical activity was the captain of the guard, a large and skilled man, hard but not unfair. What had puzzled Aragorn was that they were practicing in the castle’s courtyard for all to see; anyone in the castle looking out a window facing the yard, as well as anyone coming or going from the castle, servant or nobleman alike.

Aragorn had asked the captain about this when he was practicing with him alone while Boromir took a break, standing back and watching Aragorn move. The captain let him know that it was the Steward’s wish that all could see his son fight. He was to lead Gondor and Her armies and needed to show himself worthy of this task.

In Aragorn’s opinion, it was unnecessary pressure and he could just imagine how Faramir would react when he realised this when he was old enough to practice. Considering how nervous he was with practically anyone, save Boromir and now also Aragorn and a selected group of servants and teachers, it was sure to make the young boy even more nervous than he already was.

Well, he was here by the grace and kindness of the Steward. He had not gotten the best image of the Steward so far, but he could have been mistaken. He owed him better than that and when all was said and done he really had no right to even form an opinion. It was none of his business how Denethor ran his household and as long as he was not affected then he should stay out of it. Yet he had a bad feeling that as time passed, Faramir, and even Boromir, despite his distance, would manage to form special places in his heart, making it impossible for him to stay out of Denethor’s way of raising his sons.

“Very nicely done,” the captain complimented him on his latest move, breaking Aragorn’s train of thought. Aragorn stood a step back and redid the series of moves, parries, and hits that had earned him praise. His father had been a master swordsman and he had taught his son well, always patient and encouraging in his tutoring. He practiced a bit more with the captain, holding him off nicely until the captain made an unexpected move and managed to force the sword from his hand.

“I surrender,” Aragorn said when the captain had his sword at his throat. The captain smiled as he drew back from him and put his sword back in its scabbard. He picked up Aragorn’s sword and handed it back to him handle first and Aragorn nodded his thanks as he sheathed it, seeing the gesture as the man’s way to give him back his pride after the defeat.

“You fought estimably, Strider,” the captain complimented him as they walked to where Faramir and Boromir had been watching them.

“Thank you, Captain,” Aragorn said, content with his performance though he had been defeated.

“That was amazing!” Faramir said with large eyes as they crossed the short distance, and Aragorn smiled.

“Thank you.”

Aragorn turned towards Boromir and his smile died on his lips. Boromir looked ready to strangle him; his eyes as dark as the night. His coldness made Aragorn frown, unsure how to react to it as he had neither expected it nor seen the boy show such direct hostility towards anyone.

“Boromir, why do you not spar with Strider for a few rounds?” the captain suggested, obviously oblivious to the sudden tension between the two boys.

“With pleasure,” Boromir said darkly as he took his sword from its scabbard and Aragorn back-stepped, drawing his own sword.

They circled each other until they were in the middle of the yard and some distance from Faramir and the captain who were both watching with interest.

“Have I done you wrong somehow?” Aragorn asked softly, and his honest and direct question made Boromir shoot him a shocked look before the dark expression returned.

“You should know well enough,” he sneered and jumped at Aragorn who sidestepped the angry attack. They began to change blows, Boromir with an angry intensity, which dulled his skills, and Aragorn calmly though confused by Boromir’s anger.

They kept circling each other, Boromir refusing to step down and Aragorn matching the blows, Boromir’s anger forcing Aragorn to be on the defence instead of the offence.

Aragorn managed to parry another blow from Boromir and even succeeded in getting a rare attack in between Boromir’s quick and angry blows.

Aragorn’s attack had pushed the other boy backwards when a voice suddenly sounded through the yard, “Is this the skill with which you will defend Gondor?”

Both boys froze and looked up to see Denethor looking down at them from the west wing’s open corridor, standing against the stone railing, displeasure in his eyes, as he watched them through the large stone arcs facing the yard. Behind him stood several people from his entourage, looking curiously at the display below. Most of the palace’s windows had glass in them but some of the long corridors connecting the various wings of the palace had open stone arcs on both sides.

Boromir’s cheeks flamed red. ”No, Sire,” Boromir said softly.

“What was that?” Denethor asked, and though Boromir’s words had been quiet there was no doubt he had heard them the first time.

“No, Sire. It is not,” Boromir repeated loudly, lifting his head and meeting his gaze. 

“Words are for weaklings. If your words are true you will show them in deeds,” his father said disapprovingly, either oblivious to his oldest son’s embarrassment at being scowled at in front of several onlookers from the court, and servants as well, or simply not caring.

“Si—” Aragorn was about to make a respectful but critical comment to Denethor as he felt Boromir’s embarrassment and wanted to try and ease it. He had always been an empathic boy, a trait from his mother, as well as fearless if he felt he was right, a trait from his father. Those two combined could, he knew, bring him trouble now that he was at court, but changing who he was wasn’t an option. He would rather die standing than live on his knees, pretending to agree when he did not. Yes, he had to be careful, be strategic about his voicing of opinions but he felt confident he could walk that line.

Aragorn’s eyes were raised as he looked up at the Steward, his sword automatically lowering. His mind was busy with ways he could respectfully defend Boromir’s actions, when suddenly Boromir charged him, making him tear his gaze back to the angry young man, in shock and confusion at his actions. He barely managed to parry the blow. In that moment, Aragorn doubted Boromir remembered that this was just a practice but thought it one in which they used real swords.

They traded blow after blow, Boromir’s attacks even more vicious than they had been before. _This is for his father_ , Aragorn realised. If what he had seen was any indication, Boromir was obviously Denethor’s favourite but now he saw that it also meant Boromir had likely become addicted to this place of favour and would do almost anything to keep his father’s love. He could understand a son’s need to make his father proud as well as a child’s need for a parent’s love and therefore his own anger at Boromir’s actions faded away.

He parried blows with Boromir for a few minutes more and both were now sweating and panting heavily. Boromir might be able to beat him but not today; he was younger, more inexperienced, and he was letting his emotions control his actions; always a mistake in battle. However, at an opportune moment, Aragorn let his sword drop when Boromir swung at him, silently praying Boromir remembered to stop short of killing him.

His prayers were answered as Boromir stopped his next swing after he had knocked Aragorn’s sword from his hand, and stopped his sword a mere inch from his neck. Aragorn drew a relieved breath and fought to get his heart rate back under control; for a second or two he had truly doubted if Boromir would remember to stop in time.

“I surrender,” Aragorn said calmly and their eyes locked, Aragorn’s stare steady and direct while Boromir’s were still clouded with anger and a million other emotions Aragorn could not identify.

“Well done, my son,” came Denethor’s proud voice and Boromir looked up at him, his smile strained. With a last satisfied smile at his son, Denethor moved on, forcing his entourage to do likewise and soon they had disappeared into the western wing and were out of sight.

Boromir returned his attention to Aragorn and after a second or two of looking into his eyes as if searching for something, he removed his sword from his throat, almost reluctantly. He went and picked Aragorn’s sword up and handed it to him, handle first.

“Thank you.”

Aragorn put his sword back in its scabbard strapped to his waist and Boromir did likewise with his own.

“Strider,” Boromir called to him and their eyes met once more. The name spoken to him here, where they were far enough away for Boromir to have used his true name, made Aragorn aware that his newly-found friend was still upset with him.

“Yes?”  
  


“I fight to win but I wish to win fairly or not at all.”

“I understand yet I was merely…” Aragorn began, making an assuring gesture. He had meant only to help a boy keep his father’s affection, knowing how much it hurt to lose it even for a second. If the loss of his parents had taught him anything, it was that life was too short to waste on anger and fights between family and friends.

“Do not patronize me again,” Boromir interrupted, his voice hard.

“I would never—” Aragorn protested but before he could finish Boromir had turned his back to him and walked away. As Aragorn watched him he crossed the distance to Faramir and the captain.

_Stubborn, proud, and taken to rage but also protective and insightful_ , Aragorn mused silently as he watched Boromir and saw the younger man smile, his whole body language changing when he reached his younger brother. Very interesting combination. Very interesting indeed. Aragorn wondered if this combination would end up uniting them or tearing them apart. He prayed for the first and feared the outcome should it turn out to be the latter. 


	7. A Dangerous Combination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir and Aragorn talk

## Chapter 7: A Dangerous Combination

It was now close to dinnertime and since their sword practice, Boromir had done his best to avoid Aragorn, taking Faramir with him. After practice both boys had bathed, and Aragorn had again been faced with his dilemma regarding a lack of clothes. He did have one more clean shirt so he had changed, and once more pushed the concern aside for now. They had had one more lesson, this one about the current state of affairs in Gondor. It had gone well enough in the sense that Faramir was off with a nanny, Boromir had been purposely ignoring him, and the teacher had done likewise after declaring arrogantly that he was a ‘wild peasant boy who believes himself better than he is’.. Of course, using only the name Strider the teacher would have no reason to believe otherwise. Aragorn had been too concerned with Boromir’s behaviour to worry about the teacher. The first he would have to spend a lot of time with, while his interaction with the teacher would be only a few hours a week, and as long as he learnt something, which he did, he didn’t let it bother him too much.

After this, Boromir and Faramir had gone off somewhere and Aragorn had been unsure of what to do with himself, so he had wandered the halls of the castle, exploring it a bit more. It was beautiful and grand; high ceilings, statues, tapestries, and decorated furniture. But there was a gloomy feeling over it all; the place felt…grey somehow. Having finished his solitary tour, he found he was still not missed, and the only people he met were servants who hastily moved past him to carry on with their chores. He had lived isolated in a forest all his life but it was first now, in a grand palace, that he felt alone. He had been used to always having somewhere to be, someone who would miss him and be there for him.

He found the library and since it was deserted, he seated himself in a large soft chair by the fireplace. Looking into the flames, stillness all around him, his thoughts began to drift. He hadn’t really had time to mourn his parents yet; there had been too much going on; too many changes. He had cried for his mother, at her grave. He had longed for her, missed her so intensely he had thought his heart would break and kill him. Yet it had not, and in the months his father had been away, he had come to accept the loss of her but not everything else he had lost; his father, his home… He had not had time to mourn his father yet and fully accept he was gone. Almost as if he did not mourn his father, he was not really gone. He was still out there, avenging his mother. Yet he **was** dead. His father’s sword, lying safely in his bedchamber, was evidence of it. Now as he sat alone, the only sound that of people moving about somewhere else in the palace, the sounds low and muted, he allowed himself to cry for losing not only a mother and a father but also a home and all he had ever known.

It could have been forever but it was probably only a few minutes before he pulled himself together, wiped the tears away with the back of his hand and erased all traces of them, knowing he would most likely never cry for them again. The hurt would always be there, the loss would always be felt, but it was starting to fade. Each day made it a little better, a little more bearable.

Determined not to sink into misery for the second time that day, he had gone hunting for Boromir and Faramir. Boromir’s cold distance was becoming annoying, not to mention frustrating. They had to resolve whatever was between them.

Asking various servants, he finally located them in the castle’s garden, Faramir playing catch with a butterfly, and Boromir leaning against a tree, enjoying the last rays of the sun while still keeping a watchful eye on his brother. It was a fairly large garden filled with trees, flowers, a small fountain, and many green bushes that leaned against the walls of the castle, facing the garden. Unlike the courtyard, all windows facing the garden had glass in them, giving the garden a feeling of solitude and privacy. Though well-kept, the garden still lacked the special glow of a loving hand.

Ignoring the tension that had been between them, Aragorn simply walked to the tree and sat down beside Boromir, who immediately stiffened, and the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees.

“We need to talk,” he said simply, turning so he could look at Boromir.

“We have nothing to talk about,” Boromir replied sharply, sitting up straight, his eyes still on Faramir, one hand moving as if to his sword, then stopping as he obviously recalled neither he nor Aragorn carried swords when not practicing.

Seeing the movement, Aragorn recalled this also and was suddenly immensely happy for it, not knowing Boromir well enough to know if he had **that** much more control over his rage than his father, who seemed to give into his easily enough, for better or for worse. In fact, he didn’t know Boromir that well at all. The only one in this family who so far didn’t seem to have an anger management issue, was Faramir. On the other hand, he seemed insecure enough that Aragorn was starting to wonder if he might not one day ask permission to breathe. The longer he stayed here, the more he thanked the Gods for granting him two loving parents; towards each other and him. He had never doubted he could do literally anything, and that his parents would always protect him, love him, and be there for him no matter what; as he felt parents should be.

“I happen to think you trying to cut my head off earlier today constitutes a need to talk,” Aragorn said calmly. He had never had much of a temper; growing up in the family he had, and in the forest where you had to be still and calm to catch the beauty and life around you, he had had no reason to. He recalled only two real arguments he had had. One where he had said something unkind to his mother for making him do a chore he did not want to and for which his father had demanded he apologize, and the other been between he and his father on some matter which had seemed so important then, but which he now no longer recalled.

“I never try; I do,” Boromir said arrogantly as he turned to look at him. In that moment he was the perfect image of his father from the coldness in his eyes to the snarl around his lips. “If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

There was enough deadly promise in Boromir’s voice to make a lesser man back down, but Aragorn steadily held his ground. His body was ready to spring into a fight at any moment, but he made sure not to reveal that fact.

“You have killed so many that a life has become so unimportant?” he asked casually, knowing full well that at twelve, Boromir had not yet been in any battles.

Boromir had to fight to keep an angry blush from showing. “What do you want?”

“I thought you did not wish to speak to me.”

“If it gets you to leave I am willing to do a great many things,” Boromir sneered.

_Now, there’s a loaded statement if ever I have heard one_ , Aragorn thought, amused, before he could recall that he was upset with the younger boy. He shook his head. They were not close enough for him to voice such teasing banter out loud. While mature in mind and body for his age, Boromir was still a child in many ways. Therefore Aragorn fought down his anger and annoyance at the tone Boromir was using with him, instead finding a calm centre from which to try and voice his arguments. 

“Earlier today,” Aragorn began more softly, keeping his face and eyes open and honest, “I did not wish to disgrace you in front of your father.”

Boromir seemed stunned that he had dared address the issue between them. “Yet you did,” he said coldly, regaining his composure.

“I **am** older than you and thus have more experience in most matters. No one expects—” Aragorn began reasonably.

“ **He** does!” Boromir interrupted strongly and Aragorn knew perfectly well who ‘he’ was.

“Your father sets unreasonable demands,” Aragorn said frankly. He had been here all of two days, but Denethor did not hide his temper or this: that his sons had to be perfect in every way. For some reason Aragorn had still to figure out, Faramir had apparently from birth already failed Denethor although the poor lad had yet to realise it. Aragorn had a nasty suspicion Faramir would never give up trying to reach for what he could likely never have, but would die if need be in his attempts to please his father.

Some of the anger left Boromir and he fell back against the tree, his back touching the hard bark. “Mayhap it is I who cannot perform the duties of a son, and not my father who does not perform the duties of a parent.”

“Preparing your sons for warfare is one thing; **leading** one against them is something else,” Aragorn said quietly but boldly. He knew it was a quick conclusion to come to, but the distance between Denethor’s parenting and his own father was so great, it was the only conclusion his 14 year old mind could jump to.

They sat in a silence, which was both comfortable and shattering.

“You can never be what you wish to be,” Boromir said softly, his eyes straight ahead on the statues in the garden, keeping an eye out for a laughing and running Faramir, who was still chasing butterflies and playing with the flowers, trees, and small animals of the garden.

“What is it you think I wish to be?” Aragorn asked, surprised, silently praying that Boromir did not share his father’s fear that he wished to steal Gondor from them. If the time was right it might be an issue, but it was not so at this time and Aragorn saw no reason to make it into one. All things aside, the Stewards had led Gondor well and Denethor had done a great job keeping Mordor at bay. Gondor was the last defence, bordering Mordor. It would always take the worst blow of the evil nation’s wrath. That Gondor was still here, still held together after all these years, was no thanks to the line of Kings but to that of the Stewards, and Aragorn was not blind to this fact.

“My friend, my brother, and my King,” Boromir said frankly, turning to look at him once more, his eyes daring him to speak against him.

“Let us start with friends,” Aragorn offered, still not sure himself what he wished to do with the aspect of himself which demanded he take Gondor’s throne in his forefather’s image. If the time was right his father had said. How was he to know? All he knew was that the time was most certainly not right now. Denethor might be a difficult man, but Aragorn had no doubt that he had great power at court, and over his country, and that he was the rock keeping the nation together. As a man who had always been at war, mayhap it was not so strange that he had ended up being at war in all aspects of his life; anger was the last defence before despair and a much more useful, yet devastating, emotion.

Boromir gave him a reassuring look but he shook his head, looking a bit regretful and sad. “You may not wish to be my enemy but simply by virtue of being here, my father will have to make you into just that.”  
  


“I have already told you that I do not seek Denethor’s praise,” Aragorn said, leaning a bit closer to Boromir to make him understand how important it was to him not to face years of loneliness in this place. He was not sure he could handle that. Then better to run off to the forest he knew and loved and be alone there.

“I do,” Boromir admitted bluntly, “and because of this, we will be in a contest whether you wish to or not. A contest I cannot lose.”

Before Aragorn could reply, Boromir had risen and the frown on his face disappeared as he reached his brother, bending on one knee before him to admire the butterfly the boy held carefully in his hand, taking great care not to injure it.

There had to be a way to become friends with Boromir, Aragorn thought, for he knew Boromir was the only one who might befriend him. If he did meet others from the court, they would all have been told he was not the Steward’s son, but a boy from the forest taken in on the Steward’s mercy and would thus avoid him, finding him unworthy.

He had never realized how much he did not wish to be alone. He didn’t need a lot of people, but growing up with his parents as isolated as he had, he had needed them and one or two close friends who had lived with their families in the forest as well, to get by.

Aragorn observed Boromir with his brother, his gentle touch, and his encouraging words and he couldn’t help but smile, amazed by how the boy could shift personality so completely. This side of Boromir was what gave him hope; there had to be a way to reach him; to make him see that he was not a threat to him. That he did not need to fight everyone; least of all him. 


	8. An Oath Of Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Bormir become friends

## Chapter 8: An Oath Of Friendship

Aragorn wasn’t quite sure how to get a handle on Boromir or the situation and so remained seated, leaning against the tree as he watched Boromir and Faramir walk the garden. It occurred to him that Boromir only ever seemed to relax and let his guard down when he was around his brother.

“If a mask is worn for too long it stops being a mask,” Aragorn mumbled to himself. He sighed deeply and rested against the tree, letting the back of his head touch the bark as he closed his eyes. Suddenly he felt weary. What should he do? What could he do? Faramir would never come to him without his brother’s permission and he would not try to come between the brothers. Boromir however, had to have his father’s love and Aragorn could understand that. It was easy as a stranger, not a son, to think both boys should simply ignore their father and fulfil their own expectations and not his, but it was not that easy when emotions got involved. The boys had no mother, and as far as he could tell, no other immediate family; their father was all they had.

Maybe Denethor could change. He hadn’t really given the man much of a chance as a man and a father, separating these things from Denethor’s role as a leader, a role Denethor played masterfully enough as far as Aragorn had seen. He had to remember that Denethor was not his own father; he could not expect another man to live up to the high standards of honour and duty he felt his father had . Of course he was biased on this, but he felt his father was a much better leader of men despite having lived so isolated for years. He had softened command with concern and had given explanations as to why he was issuing orders; having taught his son to do likewise.

A servant entering the garden broke Aragorn’s trail of thought and he followed the man’s movements. He went to Boromir, bowed before him and said, “The Steward requests your presence.”  
  


The air was suddenly tense and Faramir looked with sad eyes on Boromir, clearly unhappy at losing his brother now that they were just having fun chasing insects in the garden. 

Boromir seemed slightly reluctant, frowning, but then pulled himself together and smiled down at Faramir. “I shall return shortly, little one,” he promised, and Faramir nodded, clearly knowing he was not going to return to play more with him today.

“Yes,” Faramir agreed, attempting a smile.

Boromir looked from Faramir to Aragorn, and Aragorn held his gaze, knowing what he wanted to ask, ‘take care of Faramir’ but this time he was not going to be the one to back away. Denethor, he was beginning to see, abhorred any show of kindness, for he seemed to confuse it with weakness. Aragorn saw little reason for Boromir not to believe likewise, though he made an exception for Faramir and exercised somewhat more control, when this was all he had ever known since birth.

Of course Aragorn would keep an eye on Faramir, but Boromir was going to have to ask. Their gazes were caught in a staring match which neither wished to break. After almost a minute of silent staring had gone by, Aragorn realized Boromir would probably stubbornly refuse to back down until his father’s command had to drag him away. _Is everything a competition to you?_ Aragorn wondered and allowed his own gaze to touch Faramir with a smile instead. Maybe it wasn’t arrogance; maybe it was just survival, but as Aragorn had tried to say earlier; backing down was not always a sign of weakness and defeat.

Only when Aragorn had broken the stare did Boromir do likewise. He stroked Faramir’s hair and without another word he left the garden with the servant, not giving either Faramir or Aragorn another look.

Aragorn remained in the garden for some time yet, going to Faramir and letting him show him various things around the garden with obvious pride and joy on the part of the young boy. Going back to the palace, it felt natural to take Faramir’s hand but the touch seemed to startle and surprise Faramir. Afraid he had done something wrong; after all, he had never had any siblings, Aragorn had drawn back, but then Faramir had shyly taken his hand back and hadn’t released it until they reached the kitchen.

Aragorn went to move past it but he noticed Faramir’s longing stare and smiled. “Shall we go in and greet Ivea?” he asked warmly, referring to the kind female cook he had been introduced to at breakfast and who had also made them lunch.

Faramir nodded and smiled. “Yes, please.”

“Come then.”

They went to the kitchen and Ivea, a forty-something, large but kind-hearted woman with a round and friendly face, smiled at them when she saw them. She gave Faramir a newly baked cookie and lifted him to sit on the kitchen counter.

“How was your day?” Ivea asked Aragorn with an encouraging nod in his direction as she went back to her cooking while speaking with them.

“Probably not nearly as stressful as yours,” he said honestly, and she smiled and beamed at his implication that he knew her work was hard and often stressful, as she helped organize the entire kitchen. It was a large kitchen, but most of her people were out back. In the room they were standing in now there was a small table, some chairs, and a small stove positioned beside a door leading to the back of the kitchen. Out here in the front of the kitchen was where the Steward’s sons, and now also Aragorn, ate when they were not required in the dining room and thus only Ivea worked here.

“I normally do not gossip,” Ivea said, growing serious. “But you are such a fine young lad so I will tell you this,” she looked left and right to assure herself they were alone in the kitchen before she went on, “be mindful of the Steward, for whispers claim he is wary of you.”

“Of me?” Aragorn asked, surprised. He hadn’t imagined a rumour could have formed already but he had apparently underestimated how quickly gossip travelled. His sudden arrival would have been something unusual and exciting for many to talk about. “Why?”

“I do not know,” she admitted.

Aragorn frowned, knowing full well why the Steward did not trust him; because of his royal lineage. It was not him, but his line; it was not who he was now that Denethor worried about, but what he might become.

He laid a kind hand on Ivea’s arm. “Thank you.”

She was about to comment when a sudden sound from Faramir made them both turn. They had been engrossed in their debate and since he had been silently eating they hadn’t paid special attention to him. Now they saw he had tears in his eyes, half of the cookie was on the floor and he had his hands to his throat and mouth, looking pained and in distress.

“Oh my!” Ivea yelled and moved towards him but Aragorn was faster, recalling his lessons of healing. He forced his fears to the back of his mind, taking control of the situation.

“Up with it!” Aragorn demanded as he picked Faramir up, took a strong grip around his chest from behind and pressed hard upwards, trying to get the boy to cough up whatever was about to choke him .

“Help! Lord Faramir needs help!” Ivea’s voice became more and more distant and Aragorn knew she had gone to get help.

Faramir weakly fought Aragorn’s hold, gasping for breath, his eyes glimmering with tears. Just as Boromir had reached the door to the kitchen, Aragorn gave Faramir one hard squeeze more and the piece of cookie that had got stuck in his throat was spat out. As the piece flew out of his mouth, Faramir went limp in Aragorn’s arms.

“Fara!” Boromir yelled, sounding horrified, as he saw the scene and ran in, tearing Faramir from Aragorn’s embrace with such brutality that he pushed the older boy hard.

Aragorn lost his balance and fell to the floor, barely having the presence of mind after what had just happened, as the adrenaline raced through him, to brace the fall.

Boromir held Faramir close to him but when Faramir tried to hide his tears and his face in his brother’s shoulder, Boromir placed a hand under his chin, eyeing his face over, a wild and heartbreakingly concerned look on his face as he searched his brother for injuries. When he found none but Faramir still looked shocked and still couldn’t stop crying, he turned to Aragorn.

“What did you do to him?” Boromir accused, his eyes shooting lightning so intensely at Aragorn that it seemed strong enough to kill him on the spot. “If he is hurt I swear I will…”

“Strider saved your brother, me lord,” Ivea said in awe as she too entered the kitchen and went and offered Aragorn a hand up which he took, now standing face to face with Boromir.

“What do you mean?” Some of the anger had died but the suspicion had not.

“Your brother was choking. My father has taught me the art of healing,” Aragorn said quietly.

Boromir went very still, letting Faramir hide his head in his shoulder once more, his arms around his big brother’s neck.

“The hands of a King are the hands of a healer,” he said softly, very softly, his eyes shining in a way Aragorn could not even begin to understand.

He nodded graceful acceptance of the old phrase, blushing faintly at the depth of emotions in Boromir’s face.

Without another word, Boromir turned his back to Aragorn to put Faramir on the table, his legs dangling over the edge, and checked him over for injuries more thoroughly, trying to be gentle but ignoring Faramir’s desire to continue to hide at his shoulder

“Let me see,” Aragorn requested softly and Boromir moved a bit as Aragorn went to his side and ran his hands over the young boy. Faramir flinched slightly as Aragorn’s fingers touched his ribs where he had held him up to get him to spit out the piece of food that had been stuck in his throat.

“Is he unhurt? Shall I call a healer?” Boromir frowned in concern and Aragorn couldn’t help but smile a bit. Boromir would make a wonderful father for in fact he was already a father; probably had been from the time Faramir had been born.

“His ribs are merely bruised. If you allow me to, I shall wrap them. In a few days the bandage can be removed,” Aragorn said as he stood up straight again, turning to Boromir.

Boromir looked relieved beyond words. “Ar—“ he began but was interrupted.

“Lord Boromir,” a servant respectfully said from the kitchen door. “The Steward requests your presence at once.”  
  


“Can he never give us a moment’s peace?” Boromir mumbled under his breath, and Aragorn realised Boromir found interacting with his father almost as stressful as Faramir did.

Boromir’s eyes were torn and pained when he looked at Aragorn and he took pity on him.

“If you trust me to do so I shall bandage your brother and stay with him till you return or we are called to dinner.”  
  


Boromir nodded his thanks, relief clear in his eyes. His attention returned to Faramir who seemed still too shocked to speak. He smiled warmly and gave his younger brother a warm but light embrace ensuring he did not touch his bruises and hurt him further.

“Strider will take care of you till I return,” Boromir said softly before he turned to Aragorn. “You saved my brother’s life,” he said strongly, gratitude and a million other emotions Aragorn couldn’t decipher on his face. “I owe you a life.”

Aragorn smiled warmly. “Your friendship will do.”

Boromir reached out his hand as if they had first met, and in a way, they had. Gone were the anger and the resentment from Boromir’s eyes; they were now kind and open. “You have that and more,” he vowed.

“Thank you,” Aragorn said heartfelt as he took his hand in a warrior’s grip, hand on wrist. He felt as relieved as if a huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He didn’t doubt Boromir’s sincerity; he had gained an ally for life. He had quickly discovered all alone was something he did very poorly and was grateful to find he needn’t fear spending the coming years here in solitude.

“My life is still yours and I vow to one day pay you back in kind,” Boromir said seriously and Aragorn was impressed by the young man’s sense of honour as their hands fell apart.

Before Aragorn could reply, Boromir had left after giving Faramir one last smile.

Aragorn looked after Boromir for a few seconds, thoughtfully. There was definitely more to Boromir than met the eye; in fact the best part of him was the part he kept hidden the most. Interesting. He was now sure he could strike up a friendship with this young man and by implication, Faramir as well. Loving Faramir would be easy. Somehow, he doubted the same would be true for his older brother.

“Come, let me tend to you,” Aragorn said warmly to Faramir and picked him up, going to the room in the back where Ivea said there were some bandages.

As the evening went on and Denethor did not show up, Aragorn’s earlier thoughts about giving Denethor a second chance in his role as father disappeared in anger. By now, Boromir would have told him what had happened after Ivea’s call had brought him running from his father’s room. Faramir could have died and Denethor did not even drop by. A dark thought entered his mind; as the brothers grew older, would Denethor resent Boromir’s love and protectiveness of Faramir and see it as weakness? Probably. Would that mean he would be angry with Boromir now for running to Faramir’s aid? Angry with all of them for that matter?

It made no sense at all if he was, but recalling the cold look in the Steward’s eyes, he shuttered when he thought that in a twisted kind of way, it might just make perfect sense to Denethor.


	9. Torn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denethor sees enemies everywhere and Aragorn feels the full force of that

## Chapter 9: Torn

Aragorn and Faramir had not seen Boromir again before dinner. Aragorn had bandaged Faramir’s bruises and had thereafter told him a tale of Elves in front of the library’s fireplace. The young boy had calmed down and no one would be able to tell he had had a trying ordeal today. The only thing that betrayed him was his occasional wince if he moved suddenly, and his tendency to hold a hand to the bandage covering his ribs under his shirt.

When Aragorn and Faramir had come to the dinner hall, Denethor and Boromir had already been there, Boromir looking like he had just had an argument with his father, for his right cheek was stinging red and he was barely holding back tears, biting his lip so brutally to be able to do so, it had begun to bleed.

Sensing the tension in the room, Faramir had tried to disappear and the act seemed a good choice, so Aragorn tried to mimic it. When they had seated themselves, neither had spoken but neither had Denethor or Boromir, making the dining room echo with tense nothingness.

Aragorn was beginning to dread the evening meal as much as he could feel Faramir and Boromir did. Unlike them though, it was not nervousness or a fear of displeasing Denethor that made the meals seem long and exhausting. It was the word and mind games that Denethor, in his opinion, seemed to play with his sons. His growing desire to protect and defend the younger boys came into conflict with his teachings of respect and good manners towards one’s elders and leaders. The two contradicting rules in his head, act or do nothing, were confusing.

As the meal proceeded, Faramir and Aragorn whispered a few words to each other, mostly about the food, but Boromir and Denethor spoke not at all. Aragorn wanted to let Boromir know he wasn’t alone in this, but the stubborn set of Boromir’s jaw and the hard flint in his eyes warned Aragorn any words or touches would be taken very poorly at this time.

“I heard you managed to embarrass me today, again,” Denethor’s harsh voice broke the silence, his eyes cold when they settled on Faramir. The shock of someone finally speaking made all three boys look at him, though only Boromir managed to control the jerk his body obviously wished to make and continued eating though his muscles tensed.

“I am sorry, Father,” Faramir said softly, tears in his eyes but he fought bravely to keep them from escaping. Aragorn folded his hands in his lap, making his fingernails bite so deeply into his right palm they drew blood, just to focus on something else than his desire to come out with a biting comment. He eyed Boromir and could see he too was fighting to hold himself back, but whatever Denethor had told him before they had arrived had been effective; he was still trying to recuperate from it.

“What is that, boy? Are you crying?” Denethor asked coldly, disgust in his voice. The words **did** make the tears fall from Faramir’s eyes as he lost his fragile control.

“I am sorry,” Faramir mumbled sadly, and Aragorn had had it. Ignoring Denethor, he placed a comforting arm around Faramir, letting him seek comfort against his side.

“Get your hands off him!” Denethor snapped.

“Leave them be, for pity’s sake,” Boromir mumbled but the protest was subdued and his eyes were lowered to his plate.

“Stay out of this,” Denethor said, barely glancing at him, his attention on Aragorn, his eyes like arrows when they focused at where Aragorn had his arm around Faramir.

_He **is** your Steward and your benefactor. He may not have earned your obedience but you are still honour bound to give it to him, _Aragorn reminded himself and reluctantly drew back from Faramir, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze as he did so.

“He did not embarrass you, Sire,” Aragorn said clearly, turning his eyes to Denethor, not letting himself be cowered by the man’s strong and angry stare. Denethor’s control was mostly in the heart and minds of his sons; because of their love for him. Aragorn had no such ties and whether Denethor played mind games intentionally or not, they would work much less effectively on Aragorn, who felt no emotional ties to the Steward except mild gratitude for his help. “He was about to choke.”

“And?” Denethor said with a raised eyebrow, causing Aragorn to give him a shocked look.

“He could have died!” Aragorn sputtered, more loudly than he had intended.

Denethor’s face became shadowed with fury. “It was not the event but how it was handled I disapproved of,” he explained shortly before he added with a dangerous edge, “Is this how you address your Steward and the master of the house you live in?”

Aragorn felt embarrassment colour his cheeks but was too angry to care. However, he knew Denethor was right in this.

“I apologize for my sharp tone, Sire,” he forced out through clenched teeth, suppressing an urge to say or do something even worse to him. He was well aware of Faramir’s frightened stare and was grateful Boromir was not looking at him but eyeing his food though not eating, as if he knew well this humiliation would become worse with an audience.

“You do not seem sorry at all,” Denethor observed, his eyes two dark pools of anger. “Come to me, boy,” he added when Aragorn didn’t know how to respond to that, for Denethor was right; he was not sorry at all.

_Boy?_ Aragorn’s face flushed bright red with shame, humiliation, and rage. Whatever little kindness he had felt he owed Denethor as a father figure was gone now. He fought to get his emotions under control, not sure what Denethor would demand of him, before he left his chair and walked to stand beside Denethor’s . He was grateful that only Faramir followed his movements out of the corner of frightened eyes while Boromir sat stiff, his gaze fixed on a spot on the table.

“Yes… Sire?” He made himself add the title, trying to put his emotions in a place where they would not disturb him. He knew he had been lucky having the parents that he did; caring and kind. He knew discipline and corporal punishment was not just accepted; it was the norm. Yet he had never been punished like that. His parents might have made him feel guilty, yelled at him, an occasional slap, yes, but that had been the worst. He had never been humiliated in his punishment before.

Denethor looked up at him from his chair, his half-smile predatory, his eyes said ‘I am going to win this!’ yet Aragorn was not sure what they were fighting over. Control? Boromir? Faramir? Gondor?

“Do you see yourself higher than the Steward?” his mild tone was in contrast to the situation and Aragorn knew this was going to end badly.

_Don’t think, just do_ , Aragorn said to himself. “No, Sire,” he said in a monotone and emotionless voice, forcing his growing unrest and discomfort to the back of his mind.

“Then mayhap your position ought to reflect that.”  
  


It took him only two seconds to figure out what Denethor wanted and this time the surprise, shock, and disbelief was clear in his eyes and face. He could not be serious! He knew well he was of noble blood. He might not fully believe he was also of royal blood but his nobility was indisputable.

“Father, mayhap it would be—” Boromir began, looking at his father and Aragorn with a worried expression.

“Silence!” Denethor thundered, and Boromir fell silent at once, his gaze dropping back to his plate.

_Just get it over with_ , Aragorn said to himself. Protests would earn him nothing. This was Denethor’s home; they were his rules. One could think what one wanted about his methods but by and large he had right on his side, even though this fact annoyed Aragorn greatly. Besides, it was not like he had never knelt before. You always knelt before your ruler, though never in situations like this. Still, refusing to back down, Aragorn held Denethor’s gaze as he sank to one knee beside his chair and looked up at him. He managed to get his emotions so much under control that the movement seemed fluid and easy.

“Was there something I could do for you, Sire?” he asked with just enough bite to make the words this side of sarcastic but not enough to be insulting.

Without warning Denethor’s hand made contact with his cheek and sent his head flying to the side and his ears ringing.

“You do better in remembering your place or I shall be forced to show it to you,” he said coldly.

Aragorn’s skin was stinging and itching but it was the shock that had left him momentarily speechless. He had hit him! No one but his father had ever laid hand on him before.

“Yes, Sire,” he got out, the shock, not the pain, making his voice seem soft and subdued.

“Since you have time to insult me you are obviously not very hungry, so for three days you will skip dinner.” He seemed to consider for a moment before he added, “Faramir as well.”

  
“Sire, Faramir did nothing to insult you,” Boromir broke in while Faramir just watched the display nervously, his hands shaking in fear in his lap.

“The fault was mine, Sire.” Aragorn hastily backed Boromir up. In his opinion there had been only one fault here: Denethor twisting the episode into something it was not, something suspicious and paranoid, but he was not saying that out loud.

“Very well. Only you then.” Denethor gave in and sent his youngest son a cold look. “He can take his meals the coming days in his chambers.”

Aragorn almost smiled at this; that would not be considered punishment by either of the boys but they all kept silent even though Faramir couldn’t held but let a small smile show. Not sure what to say to the Steward’s words, thank you seemed a stupid thing to say and might make him change his mind so he decided to play it safe on all fronts, afraid that if Denethor did not know Faramir was Boromir’s - and his own - weakness at this time, he was not giving the information up willingly.

“May I return to my seat, Sire?”

Denethor looked down at him as if he had forgotten he was still kneeling beside his chair. “You may,” he said. He seemed disinterested now, as if his mind was far away, on a whisper or a thought no one else was hearing.

Grateful, Aragorn rose and tried to walk with as much dignity as he could muster back to his chair, attempting to avoid the sympathetic looks of the servants and the palace guards standing near the door who had been trying to avoid looking at him during all this, but since they had to look straight ahead, had been unable to do so entirely.

Aragorn had hoped to be ordered away from the table to avoid sitting through the rest of the meal, but Denethor seemed as if he knew this, for they finished the meal in silence. Aragorn ate plenty simply because the knowledge he was not having evening meals the next three days made him feel hungrier now. He wondered if dinner meant only the evening meal or all meals. He hoped it was the former so he could eat more at lunchtime.

Finally they were all allowed to leave and they gratefully did so. Aragorn had sensed Boromir was still rattled from his own argument with his father, so Aragorn picked up a still shaking Faramir and they left as quickly as they could. The young boy had clearly experienced as much shock and fear in one day that he could take.

When they were on the stairs walking towards their chambers, Aragorn eyed Boromir worriedly. He would be sporting an even more impressive mark on his cheek than Aragorn, and Aragorn deduced Denethor must have hit him more than once.

“Do you wish to hold him?” he asked softly, offering Faramir back to his brother in the hopes it would cheer up both brothers.

Faramir was still shaking and clinging to Aragorn’s neck as if for dear life, now having allowed the silent sobs to become full tears.

Boromir shook his head. “I do not trust myself right now,” he said quietly.

“Temper?” Aragorn guessed and hugged Faramir as close to him as he dared without bruising him through the bandage.

“Yeah.” Boromir smiled half-heartedly and with some embarrassment at him.

“What happened?”  
  


Boromir looked uncomfortable. “The usual.” At Aragorn’s look he elaborated, “He thinks I pamper Faramir, act like a woman in my concern.” He blushed deep red at this, clearly finding this comment deeply insulting.

“Do not listen to him. Concern is for all. Not just women,” Aragorn said reassuringly. “If love is not worth fighting for then nothing is.”  
  


“I guess,” Boromir said thoughtfully but Aragorn knew 12 years of upbringing could not be changed overnight.

“Whatever your father called you; weak, a disgrace, an embarrassment, whatever words he might have chosen, they are **not** true,” Aragorn went on as he entered Faramir’s room to help him to bed, Boromir silently following. “You are a dutiful son and a skilled student. You will become a great warrior and a fine man.”  
  


Aragorn turned to look at Boromir when he remained silent, having now placed Faramir under the covers after he had helped him change into his nightshirt. The young boy was exhausted but managed to capture the nearest of Boromir’s hands who allowed the touch but seemed torn and pained about it.

“He said my care for Faramir will be his undoing,” Boromir said, sounding agonized.

Aragorn put a calming hand on his shoulder, remaining sitting on Faramir’s bedside. “His undoing will be if you withdraw your love,” Aragorn said softly as Faramir was drifting off to sleep from sheer exhaustion.

Boromir looked down at Faramir who looked even younger and vulnerable in the adult size bed he was laying in and his expression softened. He bent and planted a soft kiss to Faramir’s forehead before he stood once more.

“I will go for a ride,” he told Aragorn who nodded.

“I will watch over your brother.”  
  


Boromir nodded his thanks, his eyes still deeply troubled as he walked to the door, letting his hand fall from Faramir’s grip.

“Boromir?” Aragorn called softly, keeping his eyes on Faramir who had now closed his eyes and seemed to fall into a deeper and deeper sleep by each passing moment.   
  


The other boy turned back to look at Aragorn sitting at Faramir’s bedside. “Yes?”  
  


“Your father’s approval and your brother’s love should not be mutually exclusive and you should not have to remain in the middle between them,” Aragorn said quietly into the stillness of the room, his eyes still on Faramir.

“You ask me to choose between a brother and a father, and that I cannot do,” Boromir whispered agonized.

“Then the burden you bear will never lessen,” Aragorn warned as he turned to face him, his eyes and voice filled with compassion.

“Mayhap,” Boromir agreed softly, pained. “Yet I have no other choice.”  
  


Boromir left the room and Aragorn knew he needed to try and reclaim a sense of peace in the wildness of an evening ride over the hills.

Aragorn turned back to Faramir and with a warm smile stroked the boy’s hair away from his sleeping head so it would not fall into his eyes.

“There may come a day where you will have to choose, whether you wish to or not,” he whispered softly, knowing Boromir could not hear him and even if he could, he would not have wanted to.

With a last look at Faramir to make sure he was sleeping peacefully, Aragorn went to his room, letting the rooms connecting Faramir’s room to his through Boromir’s stand wide open so he could hear him should he call. Before he went to bed, Aragorn looked out through his window at the stars blinking down from the sky and in their cold and silent beauty, he found a sense of balance once more after the evening’s shock. He had often looked at the stars with his parents and they had told him that they would one day be watching him from up there. He believed they did so now and he smiled fondly up at them before he went to bed. His dreams were peaceful this night, filled with stars and light, making his lips curve as he imagined it was his mother’s soft love and his father’s protection that guided his dreams.


	10. As The Years Go By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next four years were marked by growth but little change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter for this one update. Hope this large update can help someone through these times. Be kind, consider each other and no hoarding!

## Chapter 10: As The Years Go By

The next four years were marked by growth but little change. What change did occur was for the worse. Mordor grew stronger, Gondor fell deeper and deeper towards despair, making Denethor do likewise and put even more pressure on Boromir’s shoulders as if he expected the young man to save the old kingdom single-handed. The White Tree of Gondor standing outside the palace remained bare and the relationship between Gondor and Rohan grew strained. There had been only two visits between the two kingdoms in the four years; one where Denethor had travelled to Rohan with Boromir and Faramir, and one where the King of Rohan, his son, and his nephew and niece, Eomer and Eowyn, had travelled to Gondor. Aragorn had not been invited to Rohan or to the feasts or the meetings when the Rohan royal family had been to Gondor since he was not a part of the Steward’s family. Though he had never been introduced to Rohan’s royalty, when they had been in Minas Tirith, Aragorn had spotted them from his chambers. Boromir had told him what had happened in his absence and had spoken mostly about Eomer because the young man had been close to his age. Like Aragorn, he was only a few years older than Boromir, and they had spoken well together. Eomer was a rather quiet man but strong in body and mind and was clearly very protective of his sister who was around Faramir’s age. Faramir and Eowyn had played well together but since Faramir was the second son it was Boromir whom Denethor and Eowyn’s uncle had talked about marrying her off to, despite Eomer’s great protests. Not because he disliked Boromir but because he did not feel it fair to do this to his beloved sister.

When the alliance between Rohan and Gondor had collapsed so had any marriage plans to Boromir’s relief, for though Eowyn was a sweet child he had never cared to take her as a bride. The thought of her serving in that capacity, when she at the time of the debate had been only a child, had been disquieting to him. Her closeness and similarity to Faramir had made Boromir connect her to him in his mind and heart; a sibling, and not a potential lover.

Boromir had lived up to his word and he now counted Aragorn among his friends, trusting only him to guard over Faramir. He helped the older boy in any way he could; with clothes, occasionally a little money, and whatever else he might need without Aragorn ever having to ask for it. However, the years had taken their toll on Boromir and he smiled even less than he had when Aragorn had first arrived. The demands on him grew, for each day, failure had a higher and higher price, and his childhood ended before his time. Though he remained Faramir’s guardian and protector, and a friend to Aragorn, he was alone; neither Aragorn nor Faramir shared the burdens which had been laid upon him.

The pressure and demands on Boromir had him grow colder and colder, having to fight his way through. Only the sight of his brother could make him smile, and if Aragorn was lucky he would be granted a small smile and a friendly hand on his shoulder in passing as well.

His constant lessons, especially physical ones, had made Boromir grow into a handsome, tall, and fit young man. While Aragorn had outgrown him in height and was as fit and muscular as Boromir, he was of more delicate and slimmer built and his beauty was not as roughened and hard-edged as Boromir’s.

Denethor’s disappointment with Faramir did not lessen with the years and despite Aragorn’s urges that he try not to take his father’s disinterest to heart, Faramir still worked as hard as he could to please his father. Aragorn knew that if it was hurting him to see Faramir’s hopeful face crumble into pain and despair, as Denethor gave him scorn and not a kind word in sight, it had to be breaking Boromir’s heart.

Faramir had grown into a slim eight-year-old boy with fair hair and a sweet face, his eyes endlessly expressive and forever seeking and exploring. The family resemblance to Boromir grew with each day yet still Faramir’s beauty promised, like his behaviour, to be softer, milder, and kinder than his brother’s. They were like day and night; one all darkness and the other all light. Yet still it was the dark side which got all the attention from the same sun they both craved so dearly to reach: Denethor.

Boromir on his part was getting better at remaining seemingly emotionally unaffected by the sorrow around him, only letting his emotions shine through when it came to three things; Gondor, Faramir, and Aragorn. Yet despite his brave front, Boromir was still only 16 and though Aragorn did not need a protector, Boromir would sometimes play the role and try to intervene between Denethor and him.

As the years had passed, Aragorn’s conflicts with Denethor had become more and more frequent. As Aragorn’s will and strength grew, Denethor tried his best to break both. Unlike Faramir, whom Denethor would more often than not hurt with words, his conflict with Aragorn had developed from their first confrontation; words had little effect on Aragorn and thus Denethor would often resort to humiliation and physical punishment, often of a milder kind where the humiliation was worse than the pain. Aragorn might have grown to resent Denethor but he also knew the man was neither stupid nor evil; he simply felt this was the right way, maybe the only way, to save the country he loved and to raise the family he, in his own way, loved. However, that did not mean that Aragorn did not feel furious when he thought about it. He felt certain Denethor knew Faramir would rather be beaten within an inch of his life than to hear such uncaring and disappointed words from his father and he was equally sure he knew that Aragorn would rather face any beating or hear any unkind words instead of being treated like a child, talked about as if he was not there, ordered to kneel and apologize for real or imagined wrongs Denethor felt he had done.

Though Aragorn knew Denethor was not much worse than many other parents, then in the face of his own parents, mild mannered and loving, the shock seemed even greater. Honour was now the only thing that kept him here; honour, and need for he had nowhere else to go and to be honest he did not wish to leave Faramir and Boromir here to face this alone. 

Aragorn and Faramir would often spent hours together talking about the Elves and their culture that Faramir adored, while Boromir was off to whatever special training Denethor had given him. Boromir’s need to excel, however, was not always enough when the challenges put before him kept getting harder and harder. With a stubbornness and pride matched by few, Boromir would force himself way past his limits. Aragorn had made it an almost nightly habit to help Boromir into bed after physical exercise lessons that left him so exhausted he would almost pass out in Aragorn’s arms as soon as he had returned to the privacy of their floor.

While it was true that direct punishment was mostly given to Faramir and himself, Boromir did not have it easier because of that. While Faramir and Aragorn received a solid academic education, Boromir’s education became less academic and more warrior orientated. He trained every day with lessons of endurance, strength and other qualities a good warrior leader needed. An endurance test could be to leave him standing out in the courtyard with his arms stretched out to either side, a bucket of water in each hand. He then had to remain standing like this till his teacher, a cruel man Aragorn was glad to say Faramir and he worked little with, seemed to think it was enough. If he failed a lesson for example: he lowered his arms in the exercise mentioned before, he would be punished in various ways from a solid caning to running for miles. Added to that would come his father’s displeasure and disappointment which would hurt Boromir worse than any physical punishment.

In Denethor’s defence, Boromir’s extensive training was working; he was one of the best warriors in the kingdom and his skills matched if not surpassed Aragorn’s and at times Boromir would manage to defeat him during sword practice. Aragorn didn’t mind; his opinion of what it meant to lose and what it meant to be honourable was not the same as Boromir’s.

The one person Aragorn had drifted closest to was Faramir. This was likely because they were both seen as outsiders, worthy of as little attention as possible and as time passed they shared more and more interests. Faramir had grown into a warm, curious, and dreamy young boy, which made him easy for Aragorn to connect with. Their rapport came natural and easy; there were no barriers or competition between them. Their main difference remained that Aragorn, thanks to the ever strong and present memory of his parents’ love, was sure of himself and his beliefs, whereas Faramir was often insecure and hesitant, easily hurt by others’ lack of interest or scorn.

Despite the difference in their ages and Denethor’s different attitudes towards them, the three boys had managed to stick together. Their bond and defence of each other was breakable only by Denethor and only at their weakest hours. A shared secret between the boys had further strengthened their bond. The Wizard Gandalf the Grey had came to Gondor three years ago and had offered to tutor Aragorn and the sons of Denethor. However, the Steward would have none of it, accusing the wizard of wanting to turn his children against him. He had been ordered out of the city and while Boromir had not seen a reason to risk a terrible punishment by intervening, Aragorn had seen something in the wizard. It had been more than kindness, more than wisdom. This man was the key to something greater; Aragorn had been sure of it as soon as he had gazed into the wizard’s ageless eyes. He had managed to persuade Boromir to help him and they had managed to get a message to Gandalf proposing they met him in secret without the Steward’s presence and knowledge. The three boys had snuck out of the palace and had met him in a secluded place in town. Boromir had been convinced that Gandalf was no threat, but saw also little need for teaching from him for the teaching he offered the boys were not in war or warfare but in books, lore, and the various sciences. Both Aragorn and Faramir had been enchanted however, and it had been Faramir’s pleading that had made Boromir help come up with a plan so it would be possible for Gandalf to stay. He had somewhat reluctantly but masterfully arranged for a place the wizard could live in hiding. It would be impossible for Boromir himself to get away unnoticed from the palace continuously, but Aragorn and Faramir would sneak out and into town to receive teaching from Gandalf. Both had taken to their new teacher at once and had nothing but praise for the kind elderly wizard. Boromir would listen to their tales of their teaching with fond overbearing, still unconvinced that the teachings could be all that useful. Yet since it seemed to bring joy to both of them, Boromir didn’t say an unkind word about the unusual arrangement.

The four years had passed like this; with bright moments of friendship, brotherhood, and warmth growing between the three boys, creating between them a bond of shared circumstance, understanding, protectiveness, and loyalty. Then there had been days of struggle and pain where their loyalty to each other had been tested, their differences exposed, and frustration and despair had been like living things in the air around them. Still, they had always survived and been there for each other – even if first after the fact but many times that was also enough. Through both good and bad days, the shadow and demands of Denethor loomed over their relationship and growth. It was only when the Steward left the palace that the three boys felt a complete sense of peace.


	11. A Brother’s Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denethor order Faramir to kill his dog to prove his devotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Denethor plans to have Faramir's dog murdered! Where is John Wick when you need him?!

##  Chapter 11: A Brother’s Soul

Today had looked like it would be a nice day; maybe this was why it was now turning into a nightmare. Somewhere, some God must have designed a rule that said if things looked too good to be true, they often were.

The three boys had started the day early and had eaten breakfast together in the kitchen. After a history lesson for all three of them, befitting Boromir’s level of course, Boromir had gone to his fighting lessons, this time in hand to hand combat, while Aragorn and Faramir had sneaked off to see Gandalf. When they had returned, Boromir was still doing exercises so Aragorn and Faramir had gone to the library which, as usual, had been deserted. Here they had read up on Elven history, culture, and languages together. This was not a class they had since Denethor was not particularly fond of the Elves and mistrusted them as a race. Aragorn’s and Faramir’s fascination for the Elven culture had only risen as the years had passed, and they loved to search the palace’s library for new information and tales. For Aragorn this was a time for him to remember his mother with bittersweet fondness, while for Faramir it was a chance to escape reality and dream of magical and far off places filled with foreign people and strange customs.

The first sign the day would end badly had come not long after lunch. The Steward received regular progress reports from their teachers, but would at times take a personal interest in the warrior part of their education. To date such events had never been good experiences, though at times they could be less trying. Today, Denethor had ordered them all to the courtyard and had thereafter demanded that each boy showed him how far along he was with his skills with a sword. Denethor had seated himself in one end of the yard, in a chair brought out for him by the servants , a few guards and servants with him though they kept a respectful distance. The Steward had thereafter ordered the boys to step forth and show him, one at a time, starting with Boromir, of course. It was only because Aragorn knew Boromir so well, that he had seen how stressed and nervous his father’s presence made the younger boy. Aragorn had seen Boromir at his best and he was the only one beside Faramir who had seen him at his worst; weak and exhausted after a particularly painful lesson or punishment. Their shared years together had given each of them unique insight into each others’ strengths and weaknesses. Despite Boromir’s well-concealed nervousness, he did excellently with the moves he showed his father, and was also complimented on them, though, as they had all known he would, Denethor still had a few points of critique. Next was Aragorn who got off with a rain of sarcastic comments which ran off him like oil on a goose.

Aragorn, after catching Faramir’s nervous look and Boromir’s raised brow, chose not to respond to the critique, but simply gave the required subdued reply Denethor was hoping to always get from him.

Faramir had been last and he was so nervous his sword was shaking slightly. At eight, he had a smaller and lighter sword which had been made to fit his size and age. He had been practicing moves and parries for a year or two now. He had just begun showing his moves when Denethor’s first comment had fallen, shaking him further and bringing him off balance.

Boromir had tensed, his grip on his sword handle tightening till his knuckles were white and the grip painful, while Aragorn had his hands clenched behind his back, the nails of his left hand digging into his right hard enough to draw blood. Through it all neither of them offered Faramir advice or encouragement, knowing it would just make things worse.

Denethor’s sharp critique had kept coming, but Faramir had managed to finish the series of moves he had begun, though with tears frozen in his eyes. His nervousness had meant he had never done worse than he had today. 

Denethor shook his head in displeasure as Faramir finished his moves.

“Do you think this was worth my time?” he asked coldly, displeasure in his eyes.

Boromir, who had observed his brother’s moves from his position beside his father’s chair’s right side, and Aragorn, who stood beside Boromir, both tensed at Denethor’s words.

“No, Sire,” Faramir said softly as he put his practice sword back in its scabbard, blushing in embarrassment and fighting to hold back tears. He knew well that he was standing at the centre of the courtyard; all who glanced down here from the palace’s windows, looked through its doors, or passed by here would at once focus on him.

“Mayhap it is your fascination for books, especially books of the Elven kind, which keeps your focus off your assigned task,” Denethor suggested evenly, his voice almost mild.

Faramir shook his head, fighting to hide his shock and surprise that his father knew of Aragorn’s and his secret pastime. “No, Sire. I practice every day,” he insisted.

“Obviously not intensely enough,” the Steward remarked dryly, making Faramir lower his eyes to the ground in shame.

“He will do better next time. He is a quick student,” Boromir said softly as he bent down to whisper in his father’s ear.

“He is no longer a babe; he should not need your defence,” Denethor rebuked and Boromir fell silent as he drew back again.

“The study of other cultures and history is very important for any leader and brings a—” Aragorn began into the silence, his voice strong but respectful. He was unable to hold his peace any longer when he saw how miserable and lonely Faramir looked.

“Hold your tongue!” Denethor ordered, giving him a stern look. “I have not forgotten it is you who encourages these nonsense ideas of his.”

Aragorn forced his lips tightly shut to prevent himself from commenting on this.

Denethor looked at him still though, expecting a reply, and Aragorn forced himself to say, “Yes, Sire.”  
  


Satisfied with the reply, Denethor let him off the hook and return his gaze to Faramir. “If your books keeps you from your duties mayhap I should take them from you.”

Faramir looked shell-shocked at the very idea. His books were his life; they gave him hope and comfort. He couldn’t imagine being without them. “No, please,” he pleaded.

“Father…” Boromir began, alarm clearly written on his face as Aragorn worried. The books were all Faramir had. They both knew it. They were his escape. He needed them. He needed them to get through.

Denethor turned to look at Boromir and Aragorn and he obviously noticed how Aragorn had tensed up. Invisible to him, Aragorn’s right hand’s palm was now filled with bloody cuts from his nails. His hands were still clasped behind his back so they were invisible to all, but the distress in his face as well as the disgust was clear.

“Strider, you wish to say something, my boy?” Denethor asked pleasantly, an undercurrent of darkness to his words.

Aragorn knew he was just using this tone, these words, to rattle him and he was ashamed to admit it was working. At 18 he was a man in every way and to be addressed as a child had his blood boiling in rage at the humiliation.

“The books are not the problem, Sire,” Aragorn forced himself to reply, not wishing to make a bad situation worse by adding a sharp comment about whom exactly he felt **was** the problem.

Denethor turned back to look at Faramir, letting Aragorn get away with the comment for now. “Then what is the problem? What else do you spend your time doing instead of practicing?”

Faramir was unable to meet his father’s look, instead trembling in fear and embarrassment at being put on the spot. “Ahh…”  
“Speak up, boy,” Denethor demanded sharply.

“I speak with A… Strider,” he quickly corrected himself at the last moment, mentioning Aragorn first because he knew that his father did not like Boromir to waste his time on him, “and Boromir.”

“What else?”

  
“If there is time I sometimes go to see Kenó,” he said softly, his voice warm as he spoke of the small female black dog he had owned for two years now, a birthday present from Boromir. The name of the dog was Elfish of course and meant commander; perhaps a bit misleading for a dog as sweetly tempered as this one was. Denethor only ever gave gifts to his oldest son and though he should be used to it by now, every year Faramir would still keep searching for a gift from him at his birthday. Boromir had gotten him the dog for his sixth birthday, a puppy then, while Aragorn had given him a book of Elvish poetry, that he had been able to buy with money he had won in card games in the tavern downtown. This book had been the first book Faramir could call his own.

“Kenó?” Denethor raised an eyebrow at him, questioning.

Despite Faramir’s attempts to tell his father about his everyday life, Denethor had early on shown he had no interest in this and if he was told he rarely saw anything but failure in what Faramir told him about, so Faramir had stopped telling him. “My dog, Sire.”  
  


“Servant!” Denethor bellowed to the nearest of the ones who had faithfully stood guard behind his chair, ready to fulfil the Steward’s needs.

“Yes, Sire?” the middle-aged woman who answered him respectfully said as she came before him.

“Go bring Faramir’s dog out here.”

She curtsied for him. “Yes, Your Lordship,” she said and left.

Aragorn and Boromir shared worried looks and Faramir looked fearful and barely able to keep his tears back, his eyes glued to where the servant had disappeared into the kitchen where his dog often slept.

“It was no large mistake he did here today. With some practice…” Boromir began softly, placating.

“You cannot keep covering for him, son,” Denethor said with a stern but somewhat kind voice, as he turned slightly to look his oldest son in the eyes.

Aragorn was on the edge of commenting when the servant returned with Kenó walking beside her. When Kenó saw Faramir, she ran to him, waving her tail. Faramir smiled happily, knelt on one knee and embraced the dog around her neck when she came to him. He laughed a bit, some of his nervousness disappearing in the face of the dog’s open affection for him. He had to fight to not lose balance as the dog happily licked his face and wagged her tail even faster. She had grown into a large golden dog with long soft fur, and a friendly face that fitted her nature, but her size had never intimidated Faramir who had had an easy rapport with her from the beginning.

The sweet display had Boromir and Aragorn showing ghosts of smiles on their lips until Denethor’s dark voice broke in. “Yes. I see this is what distracts you.”

“I do not play with her until after my lessons… Sire,” Faramir said, fear in his voice as he tried to put as much promise and honesty into his words as he could muster while hugging Kenó’s neck.

“I doubt that but even if that is so then it is always best to remove all distractions,” Denethor said, almost kindly.

“What do you mean?” Faramir asked alarmed, holding the dog even tighter, fear making his voice small but sharp.

“What will you do?” Aragorn added worriedly, having a grim suspicion.

Denethor ignored him and looked at Faramir. “This is your chance to prove yourself to me, my son,” he said kindly, his eyes almost pleading with his son not to fail him again.

Never had Denethor addressed him as ‘my son’ and it was obvious that being called so now filled Faramir with pride and warmth, but also fear and insecurity.

“How?” he asked both eagerly and insecurely.

“Simple; take out your sword and kill the dog.”  
  


The words were said so calmly that the horror of the words took a few seconds to hit Faramir.

“Nooo!” he protested hotly, shaking his head and hugging Kenó tightly.

“You cannot mean to—” Aragorn began, shocked and disbelieving. It may just be a dog but he had been raised to respect all living things. The dog was healthy, well-behaved and they had enough food to feed it well. There was no need to put it down.

“Silence!” Denethor thundered and raised up in one quick movement, backhanding Aragorn, a furious expression on his face for his interference. Surprise at the suddenness of the attack more than the force of the blow itself, made Aragorn fight to keep his balance. Boromir stood close enough that he could prevent Aragorn from losing his footing with a supporting hand behind his back. The movement went unnoticed by Denethor since Boromir kept his body, face, and eyes glued on him and expressionless, not otherwise moving.

“Father. The dog was a gift from me,” Boromir began evenly, his voice as steady as if commenting on the weather, but his green eyes were reflecting his torment. He wanted to shield his brother from the pain his father’s order would bring him, and he wanted to ease the humiliation he could see as clear as daylight in Aragorn’s face as his cheek flamed red from the stroke. However, he did neither; instead hoping his father’s temper would calm by his own calm and presence.

Denethor turned from them and back to watching Faramir, who was still hugging the dog desperately, a disgusted look on his face at the young boy’s display of weakness.

“You should pick your gifts better in the future then.”

“Father, the dog means a lot to him,” Boromir tried again, some desperation sneaking into his voice.

Denethor gave him a piercing look, ignoring the small sobs of fear Faramir could not keep back as he mumbled comfort words to the dog he was holding so closely. “And so?”

Aragorn had managed to get back to his earlier position beside Boromir and ignored the desire to run a hand over his injured cheek as well.

“So, I ask… I beg you not to kill it,” Boromir said softly, his eyes looking straight at his father, letting him see the plea in his eyes, the desperation. He could protect Faramir from anything… anything but their father. The realisation, the helplessness of this fact, had Boromir battling himself. He knew where his duty lay, where his responsibilities lay… always had and always would and that was with his father. However, he also knew that he would never let anything happen to his brother. It was a conflict he had always battled with and one Aragorn had warned him time and again would end up destroying him. Yet he couldn’t choose. It was an impossible choice that kept him emotionally walking on glass. 

“You beg?” Denethor spat the word out in disgust and looked very displeased. “A future Steward should never beg.”

”My apologies,” Boromir said quietly, switching tactics. He kept his voice subdued, his eyes on Faramir and the pained but hopeful look he sent his older brother as he drew a little away from the dog. There was the firm childish hero-worshipping faith in his eyes that said he was sure Boromir would make everything all right and it was obviously cutting Boromir up inside thinking he might fail. No. He could not fail. He had to save Faramir; had to spare him this hurt.

“I will not kill the creature,” Denethor said after a moment’s thoughtful reflection and the three boys drew relieved breaths. Faramir smiled happily and hugged the dog close, his tears being wiped away by its fur.

Somehow sensing his distress, Kanó once more seated herself beside Faramir, allowing the hug with no other movement but a wag of her tail.

“Thank—” Boromir began, his voice and eyes filled with gratitude and relief, a smile spreading over his lips but Denethor interrupted him before he could continue.

“Faramir is going to kill it,” Denethor announced calmly, his eyes on his youngest son. There was clear conviction in his expression, that this would be the first step to finally making Faramir a son he could be proud of.

“What?” Aragorn got out under his breath, the word a shocked gasp. He had kept silent so far, knowing his interference always tended to egg Denethor on but the word managed to escape; his shock and horror too great to hold back. He could not be serious! Faramir was a very emotional boy; he might get through such an ordeal with time and loving attention from his brother but it would scar him forever.

“No!” Faramir denied strongly, shaking his head, rare courage and determination in his eyes when he looked up at his father.

“Are you defying me, boy?” Denethor asked dangerously, his full attention on Faramir now and he took a threatening step towards him. Faramir tightened his grip on Kanó but remained where he was, pleading eyes on his father.

“No, no. I beg you. Please, please don’t make me kill Kanó,” he cried, his eyes and voice begging, his body shaking. He was starting to panic, his breath coming in gasps as he began to hyperventilate.

“But I do,” Denethor said darkly, having stopped halfway towards him, crossing his arms over his chest and looked down at him with impatience and expectation in his voice.

Faramir didn’t even have to think about it. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he sadly shook his head, his voice filled with grief as he looked like he was being torn apart by his love for his father and his love for his ever loving and faithful dog. Kanó needed his protection now and he would not, could not, fail her.

“I… I cannot.” His voice was a soft whisper but still audible.

“You disobey me?” Denethor asked dangerously, taking a threatening move towards Faramir who held on tight to Kanó, refusing to leave though his eyes were large and frightened.. The dog snarled at Denethor, seemingly sensing her master’s distress and eyeing Denethor as a threat.

Aragorn thought he had never seen Denethor so dangerous; so dark before. With a sick feeling to his stomach, Aragorn knew this was going to end very badly. He had to do something; as Denethor was not his own father he did not have as great a dilemma when it came to disobeying Denethor as his sons had. He was still battling with himself how to interfere without causing Faramir more harm than good when Boromir jumped into action. Before anyone else could do or say anything he had drawn his sword and moved towards Faramir and the dog.

“Move. Now!” he ordered coldly, and Faramir drew back from Kanó since this was his brother… his brother who would help him protect Kanó and he looked up at Boromir with faithful and expectant eyes filled with hope and trust.

“Faramir!” Aragorn yelled, knowing what Boromir would do. He ran to where Faramir was still standing beside Kanó and tried to drag him back towards the space beside Denethor’s empty chair where he had just stood.

“No!” Faramir shook his head, pulling out of Aragorn’s grip, wanting to be with Kanó but sure Boromir had a plan.

Though not as far away from Kanó as Aragorn had wanted them to be it was far enough so he allowed Faramir to stop there, stopping with him.

“Turn around and close your eyes, little brother,” Boromir asked softly and Faramir gave him a strange look. The only emotions on Boromir’s face were a small encouraging smile. Faithful, sure Boromir would save him as always, save Kanó for him, Faramir did as bid and turned his back on him and Kanó. Aragorn stood behind him, also turned away from Boromir, and put an arm over Faramir’s chest, pressing him close in case he tried to turn back around.

There was a sound of a sword moving through air, a sword moving through flesh and bone, a strangled noise of agony and then a loud noise when someone fell and hit the ground. Thereafter nothing but silence.

“Kanó?” Faramir asked softly, frightened, one hand going to the arm Aragorn had around his chest as he tried to turn around, shaking off the shock and the fear the sounds had given him. This was his brother; his brother would save Kanó for him, so there was no need for his concern.

“Faramir, do not,” Aragorn warned but too late.

Faramir tore himself free and they both turned around to see the scene. Boromir was putting his sword back in its scabbard with a strangely detached look on his face, Kanó was lying on the ground, her head separated from her body, blood everywhere on the ground and on Boromir’s sword and clothing.

“NO!” Faramir yelled, fresh tears spilling as he ran to kneel beside Kanó’s body, stroking the fur on her chest and belly. On the edge of hysteria, he laid his head on the dog’s chest, her body still warm but cooling fast, as he cried into her fur.

“Good work,” Denethor complimented and clapped Boromir’s shoulder with a warm half-smile.

“Thank you,” Boromir replied automatically, his voice and eyes dead. It was apparent there were no emotions running through him at that moment; he seemed blissfully numb and it was obvious he wanted more than anything to keep feeling that way.

With one last look at the scene and a proud smile at his oldest son, Denethor left to return to the palace and his daily duties, taking the servants with him.

For once Faramir did not seem to notice or care that his father cast him a disappointed and disapproving look before he disappeared from sight.

Aragorn and Boromir looked at each other and then at Faramir, crying on the dog’s chest. First then did Boromir’s mask fall and his eyes were more anguished than Aragorn had ever seen them before. Aragorn walked to stand beside him and wanted to embrace him to ease his pain, but Boromir would rarely allow touch unless he was too ill to protest so Aragorn forced his hands to stay at his sides.

“You had no choice. Denethor would have forced Faramir to do it or punished him severely for disobeying him. There was no way Faramir could have escaped this unharmed… no other way than this,” Aragorn said softly, knowing the words would not ease Boromir’s guilt and sorrow and also aware that unharmed in this instance was a truth with some modifications. He was, however, convinced it was the best thing they could have done for Faramir under the circumstances.

“Yet if I kept him safe at the cost of his love was the price then worth paying?” Boromir replied just as softly, his voice filled with loss and pain, his eyes, like Aragorn’s, glued to Faramir’s still shaking body and the small sobs he fought and failed to keep under control. Now the emotions came and though he knew he would have done the same again if faced with a similar situation it didn’t make what he had done any easier. He had helped take something beloved and precious from his brother; something he had sworn never to do.

“He will always love you,” Aragorn mumbled, sure of this, though he was not sure how to ease Boromir’s pain. All he knew was that he wanted nothing more than to do so; the healer in him wished to ease the agony he saw in Boromir, the brother in him wished to comfort, and the man in him wished to shield and protect with a fierce strength that surprised him.

Just then Faramir lifted his head, briefly, to look at them and there was no hate in his eyes when he looked at Boromir just confusion, pain, and betrayal.

“Why?” he asked brokenly before his head returned to Kanó’s chest, his tears slowly beginning to die out from sheer exhaustion.

Aragorn looked from Faramir and back to Boromir, his face and eyes filled with shared pain and compassion as his eyes also asked the question Faramir had, wishing more of an explanation than what he had already received.

“I did not want Faramir to have to kill his soul,” Boromir said softly, his eyes avoiding Aragorn’s as he spoke. The older boy’s compassion and understanding was more than he could take right now. “His soul is so pure now; this blood would have soiled it forever.”

“What of your soul, my friend?” Aragorn asked softly, knowing what he had done would haunt him forever. Unable to stop himself, he laid a soft and comforting hand on Boromir’s shoulder and was happy when Boromir did not shake it off. However, he did not allow himself the luxury to lean into the touch either as if he felt he did not deserve the right to do so.

Boromir shrugged but Aragorn knew the gesture was false.. “Does not matter. I lost mine a long time ago; I had to.”

_Then I shall reclaim it for you_ , Aragorn thought, saddened and moved by Boromir’s words, knowing he was right. To survive he had had no other choice but to harden. With a last reassuring squeeze of Boromir’s shoulder, trying to put all his support and care into that touch, Aragorn withdrew his hand.

“I should have done it. I am the oldest,” Aragorn augmented softly, trying not to let the depth of his emotions, of his thoughts, shine through. As the years had passed so had his desire to protect and save Boromir grown, from his father but maybe mostly himself, but he could not let the depth of the fondness and warmth he felt for Boromir show, knowing that right now Boromir was still struggling and would see his concern when not in response to a physical injury, as scorn or a sign of weakness unless given very, very carefully.

Boromir shook his head before he replied sadly, softly, his eyes on Faramir and not on him, “What makes you think I care less for the soul of a brother of the heart than I do a brother of the blood?”

The words were matter of fact. Aragorn had become included in the emotional web he had woven around his brother and he didn’t question it. It simply was. 

The words warmed Aragorn’s heart as Boromir rarely spoke of his emotions but before he could reply Boromir turned to face him, turning his back on the still softly crying Faramir.

“Take care of Faramir for me. I do not wish him to touch me right now.” Boromir indicated the blood from the dog that had splattered onto his clothes and hands, and Aragorn nodded in understanding.

“I will.” The words were almost strangled by the lump in his throat. He was unsure if it was the scene, Faramir’s distress, or Boromir’s earlier words that made the moment seem so emotional.

Boromir smiled his thanks but it was a dead smile; a sad smile. He might not have lost his brother’s love but he had lost his adoration; the way he had looked to him with complete faith, a hero forever in his eyes. He had known this day would come but it was obvious the loss still hurt worse than Boromir had ever imagined.

Aragorn watched Boromir walk back into the palace, his steps were strong but his body held an age and a sense of defeat it had not had before. Aragorn fought down his urge to go after him, to try and comfort him with touch or words. Instead he turned his attention to Faramir and saw his tears had stilled but he was still holding on tight to Kanó’s body.

“Come,” he said softly, and Faramir let himself be lifted off Kanó and gently guided back into the palace, walking as if in a trance.

“I no longer wish for any more pets or anything else to care for,” Faramir said softly, his voice sounding as if he was still in shock or at least not all there.

Aragorn noticed Faramir had some of Kanó’s blood on his hands and gently guided the boy towards the kitchen to wash it off, thinking he’d have him take a full bath afterwards and then have some food brought up to his bed before he tucked him in. The boy seemed to have aged several years in the space of a few minutes and now looked as exhausted as a seventy year old.

“Why is that?” he asked kindly and just as softly, asking more to keep Faramir from withdrawing too far into himself than anything else. Though he hadn’t thought of it, he knew the love and protectiveness he felt for Faramir was different from what he felt for Boromir. This love was simple and based on the same gentle caring his own parents had shown him and thus he tried to help and support Faramir the same way they had done for him. What he felt for Boromir… that was something he had yet to understand.

“I do not wish to fail the trust of another animal seeking it, expecting it, from me,” Faramir replied softly, and Aragorn was impressed with his reply though he knew the young boy thought on a deeper, more emotional plane than his brother and father, and sometimes even him.

Aragorn didn’t know what else to say to that so he remained silent as he cleaned Faramir up. He cast a few worried thoughts towards Boromir who had left with so much pain, guilt, and suffering in his eyes. However, Faramir as the youngest was his priority and he did his best to try to guide him through the pain and shock, using all his healer skills and all his kindness to do so. He buried his brief flare of anger at Boromir for not being here for Faramir now for he knew it was not his fault. It was probably best for both brothers to deal with this separately. Instead his anger went to Denethor where he let it stay but controlled it… for now.


	12. Going Over The Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denethor tries to break Aragorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Contains a whipping scene and underage drinking for today's standards

## Chapter 12: Going Over The Edge

When Faramir had recovered from the shock, he had started to feel the impact of what he had been through. Aragorn had just managed to stop his shakes and cries when it had been time to go to dinner. The thought of facing his father again had sent Faramir back into a panic and he had begun to shake and cry terribly, pleading with Aragorn to let him stay behind, so that Aragorn had had to slip some whiskey into his milk to calm him down enough to get him to go to dinner.

Aragorn and Faramir hadn’t seen Boromir till they had gone to supper. He had washed and change clothes and he looked more together yet also more emotionally closed. Aragorn hadn’t missed the white bandage around his right wrist, showing under his red tunic. Boromir had felt he had failed today and Aragorn knew Boromir knew only one way to deal with failure: punishment. He had a sad suspicion, had had it for some years now, that if no one else punished him, he would do so himself. Aragorn had to force himself not to reach out to Boromir every time he saw what he had done to himself. His heart was aching with the desire to embrace the younger man and let him know that he was not alone; that it was not his fault. But he could not; Boromir would not allow such a gesture and Aragorn knew it. He prayed one day he would be able to reach Boromir, reassure him that everything was not his responsibility… one day when Boromir asked for his support, for anyone’s support. But so far he had not and thus Aragorn could not give everything he longed to give and that was tearing him up inside.

Dinner that evening was turning out to be, as Aragorn had feared, nothing short of torture. They had had terrible, even disastrous, dinners before but none as tense and explosive as this one.

“I trust you will practice better now,” Denethor said into the tense silence at the dining table, his voice nonchalant as if he didn’t feel that the temperature at the table was below freezing point.

“Yes, Sire,” Faramir said, his voice low, obviously fighting to hold back tears. He had barely touched his food though his eyes were lowered, almost fixated on his plate.

_I should have given him more whiskey_ , Aragorn thought sadly, darkly, as he saw Faramir’s hands were shaking so badly he had to put them in his lap, folding them so tight his knuckles went white. Then again Aragorn hadn’t known Denethor would go on and on about the advantages of having the dog killed so it could no longer distract Faramir.

“Yes. Things which contribute to failure are not what you need. On the contrary, you need all the help you can get in improving. Your progress is terribly slow. I have never seen any boy take to the sword this slowly,” Denethor reproved, his eyes switching between his food and Faramir.

Faramir was barely holding himself together, his shoulders slumping and he winced as if taking a physical blow for each critical remark his father gave him.

“For pity’s sake!” Boromir suddenly exploded, rising, his eyes and voice filled with shared pain and guilt when he looked at his father. Till now he had kept quiet and had been eating in silence, his eyes and attention on the simple task of eating in hopes it would keep his mind blissfully blank. “Hasn’t he suffered enough?”

He had fought to control the turmoil he felt within, but Denethor’s continued talk of what he considered a horrible deed in a positive way, forcing Faramir to agree with him, was bringing him to a new kind of breaking point. He had just barely managed to find a kind of peace and balance within at his deed after he had hurt himself. It was a deed he didn’t even think about. A knife against skin, red lines moving over his flesh. It was his way to cope, and it was the only way he knew which enabled him to quickly regain his composure after something like today’s events tore his soul apart. 

“Sit down,” Denethor demanded, his eyes glaring into Boromir’s anger and pain-filled green ones until he reluctantly sat back down. “I cannot see the reason behind your outburst; you wished me to help him and I did.”

Boromir winced in guilt at these words and Aragorn gave him a sympathetic look, his anger at Denethor rising. Boromir really did not need the added burden. He was brilliant at blaming himself for any little mistake he made as it was, justified or not.   
  


“If this is help,” Aragorn began softly, nodding towards Faramir’s shaking form, unable to keep silent though he knew he should, “I would hate to see what you do to hinder.”  
  


“You will not speak another word tonight!” Denethor ordered him angrily before he turned to Boromir and snapped, “If you had given Faramir a manly gift this would not have been necessary.”

Boromir winced again, guilt colouring his face and clouding his eyes.  
  


_Okay, that’s it!_ Aragorn thought. He had had it. He could no longer stay silent while both Boromir and Faramir suffered from their father’s words.

“Boromir is more of a father to Faramir, and in my opinion a better man for it, than you have ever shown yourself to be since I came here,” he said softly, his voice like ice, his eyes shooting dangers of hatred towards Denethor, his concern for Boromir driving him on. He had never been this close to being outrightly disrespectful before but he could no longer sit idle and let the two people he had come to care for so deeply suffer any longer. He was 18, a man now, and a man had the right to voice his opinions.

“I do not like the fire in your eyes,” Denethor said softly but there was hate burning in his eyes as well; hate, but above all - paranoia. “You seek to take my life so you can claim the throne, do you not?”

Aragorn shook his head in disbelief and shock. That thought had not even entered his mind. “Never.” He paused before he added darkly, “Unlike some people I can control my emotions; also my hate.”

When Denethor’s face darkened, he knew he had gone too far but it was too late to back down now. Years of growing frustration, of keeping silent, were coming to the surface in one violent outburst he could not hold back any longer.

“How dare you?” Denethor thundered, slamming his fist forcefully onto the table next to his plate, making Faramir jump and give out a frightened noise. “You insolent boy!”

Aragorn’s hands formed into fists but he still sat and spoke calmly, his eyes directly focused on Denethor. He had started this and he was not backing down. Everything he had wanted to say for so long was being said now. “You are not my father or my master. You cannot control my love like you can your sons’. I am 18 and no longer a child. I request you treat me accordingly.”

  
“I am glad not to be the first to such a disgrace of a son but I **am** the latter,” Denethor said dangerously. “I may not be able to command your love but I **will** have your obedience.”

Aragorn considered trying to protest this, but knew there was no way around it. He had spoken hastily and emotionally when he had added the last part. As long as he was in Gondor he did indeed owe the Steward his obedience.

“Yes, Sire,” he said, the voice as far from submissive as could be when saying such words. His posture and stare was calm, more respectful now, but still strong and certain.

Denethor’s eyes slitted. He was losing him; he was losing control over Aragorn. As the boy had grown he had become more and more headstrong. He had to get control back fast or all would be lost. He had to let Aragorn know who was master; who was Steward here. Until Aragorn admitted this and let go of any foolish notions he had of a lineage to the old line of Kings, a claim Denethor highly doubted, the only thing Aragorn could ever be would be a loathed enemy. Aragorn was showing too much strength and intelligence for Denethor to be at all comfortable with that outcome. He was sure Aragorn would prove an enemy he would not be easily rid of. No, he had to try and get the boy’s obedience back; one way or another. If the boy insisted on behaving like an insolent child he would punish him as such.

“Servant,” he yelled over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on Aragorn, his anger obviously rising when the young man didn’t even flinch under his cold gaze. “Fetch me my riding crop, quickly!”

A servant who had been standing, as always silent and almost invisible, along the room’s stone walls, bowed and left through the kitchen entrance. Deafening silence settled over the table as his quick footsteps faded into the distance.

Boromir looked at Aragorn and they shared a shocked but strong look. Boromir’s eyes said he would defend Aragorn if he asked. In fact there was a stubborn set of his jaw that said he would go all the way with this, as a way to make up for what he felt had been his failure earlier that day. But Aragorn shook his head almost imperceptibly; it would do no good and would probably just end up earning Boromir punishment as well. However, he was deeply touched by the gesture.

Before Aragorn had time to try and accept what was about to happen the servant was back. He laid Denethor’s riding crop in his hand, bowed and then backed quickly away. It was a long, thin, black leather crop and right now Aragorn had never seen anything as frightening. He had never been punished this severely, or in such a humiliating way before. None of them had. His heart was racing, his breathing was getting out of control and his palms were sweaty. He could not believe this was really happening. He would rather face a thousand Orcs in battle than this and he should know. He had been with Gondor’s rangers to battle against bands of Orcs several times the last two years. During all that time he had never been as afraid as he was now. In fact Boromir and Faramir had probably been more afraid for him when he went out with the rangers than he had been though, of course only Faramir would voice it.

“Come here,” Denethor ordered, his voice strangely calm and detached as he rose from the table, the crop in his right hand as he pushed his chair back to create space.

Aragorn forced his feet to move and he went to stand before Denethor, relieved that Boromir refused to follow him with his eyes as he walked around the table but was staring straight ahead. Faramir however, was watching him with big and frightened eyes, biting his lip till it bled to prevent himself from saying a sound.

_Just think of nothing_ , Aragorn told himself but that was hard when Denethor was holding the crop in his hand, and though he was not moving it, Aragorn could not help but stare at it.

Denethor moved to stand behind his chair, pushing it back towards the table. “Lean against the chair,” he ordered, nodding at his now empty chair.

Aragorn did as ordered, blushing in embarrassment and fury as he presented his back and backside. There was no way he was letting Denethor see how hard this was for him. He focused his eyes on a spot on the floor, trying in vain to still the chaos of thoughts and emotions running through him. Despite the position he was in, he still couldn’t accept what was about to happen. Servants and animals could be whipped if they did something unforgivable, he also knew some masters who did it to their young apprentices if they made very grave mistakes, but it was only the most disobedient of children who got such a severe lashing.

“You could try apologizing or appealing to my mercy,” Denethor suggested softly into his ear, suddenly appearing at his side and shattering Aragorn’s attempts at gathering his thoughts and getting his emotions under control.

“I have nothing to apologize for and I see no reason to appeal to something which obviously is not there,” Aragorn said just as softly, proud of himself that his voice did not shake. It took great willpower but he was able to turn his head and look Denethor in the eyes as he spoke, anger driving him on. Denethor wouldn’t do it. He knew he in his anger earlier had said some things he shouldn’t but humiliating him like this… even Denethor wouldn’t do that. More importantly, when all was said and done he stood by his words; he had meant them even if he probably should have formulated them more diplomatically.

Denethor nodded at this as if he had expected the reply but had still hoped for something else. His face clouded and his lips set in a grim and determined line as he drew back.

The waiting was agonizing and Denethor’s steps as he walked behind Aragorn echoed loudly in the large hall. Aragorn’s fear intensified, his heart rate skyrocketed and he fought to hold onto his courage. This was not happening. He kept repeating those words and it gave everything a surreal glow as well as boosted his courage.

“I will take Faramir to—” Boromir began softly, his quiet voice sounding like a yell into the stillness as he started to rise. His emotions were in turmoil and he didn’t know what to do with himself, but the least he could do was to make the humiliation less by not witnessing what was about to take place. He hated feeling useless and he had never felt more useless and powerless than right now. Earlier that day he had at least had a choice, a way to help. Unlike Aragorn he didn’t doubt his father was capable of carrying out the punishment. In a sudden flash of insight he knew he would feel calmer if he was the one who was about to be punished. The intensity of his own emotions, the strong protectiveness he felt for Aragorn, surprised him; he had to force himself not to physically stand between Aragorn and his father. 

“Stay!” Denethor ordered, pointing towards him with the crop, his eyes dark. “You and Faramir can learn this lesson as well.” His eyes seemed to clear a little when he saw the terrified guards and servants still standing at attention in the far end of the hall. “Everyone else leave! You can guard just as well from outside.”

Everyone curtsied or bowed and left with great haste; likely happy to be far away should Denethor’s temper not be cooled by what he was about to do.

Reluctantly Boromir sat back down and felt a small measure of gratefulness on Aragorn’s behalf that his father had sent everyone else away so they at least would not witness Aragorn’s humiliation.

Aragorn had his eyes on the floor and couldn’t see what Boromir saw; Denethor raising the crop and getting ready for the first strike.

At the sight Boromir leaned towards Faramir and whispered, his voice low enough for the words not to carry to Denethor and Aragorn, an almost pleading edge to his words, “Look in his direction all the time but focus your eyes on the ceiling above Father’s head. Do you hear me? Promise me you will not look anywhere else.”

If he could do nothing else to protect Aragorn and Faramir, he would do this at least and spare Faramir the sight.

Faramir nodded mutely, obviously fighting tears, and his hand found Boromir’s under the table. Boromir gave it a reassuring squeeze as he smiled encouragingly at him. Faramir appeared to find comfort in his brother’s grip and smile, apparently blissfully unaware of the turmoil hiding behind it.

As the first stroke fell Aragorn made a sound of pain and surprise and Faramirheld on tighter to Boromir’s hand.

Faramir had tears running down his cheeks and winced as each stroke fell while Boromir’s face was a study in withheld rage and pain.

This was really happening. The shock of this fact dulled the pain from the first stroke. After that Aragorn’s world grew small until all it contained was getting through first this stroke and thereafter the next. He tightened his grip on the chair till his knuckles went white as he tried to meet each blow, feeling the power behind them through his plain, thin shirt. He could feel wounds appearing; blood seeping forth and leaking through his shirt, colouring the white material dark. He bit his lower lip till it bled to keep from crying out but each time the crop hit his back he would hiss out a pained breath, silently praying this would be Denethor’s last stroke. With the force he put behind each hit, his arm would tire soon… at least Aragorn hoped so.

As the pain became agony, he had to bite back his pride and release his distress in shouts of pain every time the crop fell on his abused skin.

“You two… finish your meals; you can eat and look at the same time!” Denethor’s sharp and breathless voice, filled with the exhaustion of hitting Aragorn so hard, penetrated Aragorn’s pain-clouded mind. He winced in embarrassment and shared sympathy at the thought of Boromir and Faramir being forced to eat while watching this.

Despite his words neither Boromir nor Faramir ate, nauseous at the very thought. Instead Boromir held Faramir’s hand so tightly it had to be painful but Faramir still obvious found comfort in the strong grip. Faramir kept his promise and looked above his father’s head, silent tears running down his cheeks, and he winced in sympathy every time the crop fell, the sound of the strokes echoing in the large hall.

Boromir fought to keep a strong face, his free hand forming a fist under the table and his lips a grim line. He focused his attention on the strikes instead of on Aragorn’s face. Evaluating the damage and how to repair it gave him something to do, something to try and still the turmoil he felt within. As more hits kept falling Boromir made a silent vow that he would never allow anyone to harm Aragorn in this way ever again. No matter the cost he would not allow it. Somehow he would find a way to see his vow fulfilled. This certainty and determination enabled him to get by watching hit after hit, his persistence to see his vow fulfilled growing with each hit Aragorn took.

When Aragorn was on the verge of passing out from the pain, shock, blood loss, and a million other things he couldn’t name, the blows finally stopped. It felt like forever but counting, it had probably ‘only’ reached about 30 strokes, most given on his back, a few on his arse. The suddenness with which the blows stopped almost made his head spin. His thoughts were caught up in a bloodied and surreal world; right now his only thoughts were that he had to remain standing and had to keep breathing. Though he was not entirely sure why this was so important.

The silence that followed was deafening; heavy breathing and Faramir’s fight to keep from verbalising his distress the only sounds.

“Leave. All of you,” Denethor demanded as he moved back from Aragorn, waving the now bloodied crop towards Boromir and Faramir, his face and voice strangely dead and empty though breathless from exhaustion. 

The stone floor where Aragorn stood was covered in blood and he was holding the chair’s back so hard he would have broken it if he could. He felt light-headed and was afraid to let go of the chair in fear he’d pass out.

“Go to your room and wait for me there,” Aragorn heard Boromir say to Faramir before he felt something laid over his shoulders, covering his abused back and his humiliation; Boromir’s cape. Aragorn wanted to thank him for considering his honour, even in these circumstances, but his throat was dry and hoarse from voicing his agony and his body felt as heavy as stone. Finally, mercifully, Boromir’s strong arms closed around him, holding him as carefully as he could, trying not to hurt, but his touch was still painful. Aragorn winced as he allowed himself to let go of the chair, trying not to lean too heavily on Boromir, knowing he was the shorter and smaller of the two though still strong of build. However, the pain forced his hand and Boromir had to almost drag him out of the room. Pride made Aragorn stay coherent and he forced his head up to look Denethor in the eyes as he passed him. The blank look he got back gave nothing away; no mercy, no regret but no evil either. Just a man who had done a job and somehow that made Aragorn even more upset. He could at least have felt something; by the Valar, Aragorn would rather Denethor had taken enjoyment in his pain than this nothingness; as if his pain didn’t matter… at all. In that instant, as that thought reached him, he understood Boromir and Faramir’s pain and constant struggle to please their father; even painful attention became better than being pushed aside and ignored as if one were as unimportant as a piece of furniture.

“We are almost there,” Boromir told him, his voice soft and his eyes held a warm glow Aragorn could not quite place as he helped him up the stairs to their rooms. However, the guilt and pain on Boromir’s face were familiar sights.

“Wasn’t your fault,” Aragorn managed to mumble, fighting to stay awake. Exhaustion and a strange numbness were mercifully starting to take the place of the intense pain, but it also made even the simple task of speaking feel like a climb up a mountain wall.

“Shh. Don’t try to talk,” Boromir hushed gently and before Aragorn knew it, just as he was to take the first pained step up the stairs to their rooms, his world dissolved and he slid into merciful darkness.

Scene break here as you’re moving into Boromir’s PoV

Aragorn fell towards Boromir and there was no mistaking he was unconscious. Boromir smiled sadly, softly, as he held him in a stronger grip to keep him from slipping to the floor.

“Sleep now, my friend, my brother. I shall keep vigil over you this night,” he swore, and overwhelmed by protectiveness and warmth, he unthinkingly planted a soft kiss to Aragorn’s forehead. Then he lifted him up and carried him up the stairs over his shoulder as carefully as he could. It was no easy task, for Aragorn was no lightweight.

When Boromir had gotten Aragorn into his room, he lay him face down on his bed, took off the cape and tore his shirt off, but chose not to pull his pants down in order to preserve Aragorn’s dignity and pride. He sent Faramir for supplies from the kitchen but denied him access to Aragorn’s room, not wanting him to see Aragorn in this condition. He washed and bandaged Aragorn’s wounds with great tenderness, his sorrow at having been unable to spare him this pain growing as he saw the damage up close. Aragorn remained unconscious and Boromir tucked him in, positioning him on his stomach.

Thereafter he helped Faramir into bed, both of them talking little. The ordeal had been exhausting, and the calm Faramir now displayed was more due to exhaustion than anything else, Boromir knew.

When Faramir was in bed, Boromir softly kissed his forehead and then each of his cheeks.

“You hold my heart, little one. I am sorry I had to break it today,” he whispered softly, sadly.

Faramir smiled at his words and sat up in bed. Wishing to erase the sadness from his brother’s eyes, he gave Boromir a tight embrace before he released him and lay back down again against his pillow. “My love and loyalty were always yours to command,” he said with much more seriousness and maturity than most gave him credit for.

Boromir laid a hand to Faramir’s cheek and smiled sadly. “I know… that is why this was always so painful to my heart,” he mumbled softly, by ‘this’, meaning their family situation in general, and Faramir gave him a puzzled look. Boromir smiled reassuringly, not wanting Faramir to worry about him. “Go to sleep, sweet Faramir. Nothing shall harm you tonight.”

Faramir smiled contentedly at his words and settled into sleep. Boromir remained at his bedside for a few seconds longer, a warm feeling washing over him at the peacefulness of his brother even though his sleep now was more exhaustion than peace.

After some time, Boromir rose and went to Aragorn’s room, leaving the doors open so he could hear Faramir should he call him. He took a chair and sat beside Aragorn, determined to keep an eye on him. He had failed enough people today. He would not fail Aragorn again, the man he had come to care more deeply for than he was entirely comfortable with. All he knew was that unconsciousness could be dangerous and he had made a vow to keep Aragorn safe since the day he had saved Faramir. At first it had been gratitude and honour; now the vow was for Aragorn and not for Faramir.

Aragorn also looked peaceful in sleep; he had a serenity in life, a sense of immortality, which was enhanced in sleep. The picture of peace before him was so tempting to find within reach, since Boromir had always wished to touch such serenity that he could not help but to reach out and gently caress Aragorn’s cheek. He had never touched Aragorn so intimately before, and without thinking, doing so now made a smile curve his lips.

Aragorn smiled a little at the soft touch and his head turned just a little to lean more into the comforting contact.

“You have settled into deep sleep. This is good, my friend. This is good,” Boromir whispered, and suddenly all the fear, guilt and pain of today spilled over and a few tears escaped unnoticed and in silence down his cheeks. He reluctantly withdrew his hand only to have Aragorn hold it tight in his sleep, his own hand closing around Boromir’s. Boromir smiled through his tears and the tears stopped, warmth at the gesture, unconscious as it was, sweeping over him. Here, safe in the darkness, alone, not even Aragorn knowing it, Boromir allowed the touch, allowed himself to be weak and take the comfort Aragorn’s touch was offering. He laid his other hand over their clenched ones on the bed. Though it made it uncomfortable to try and get some rest, still sitting in the chair with his hand in Aragorn’s, he let it stay there. He got as comfortable as he could before he closed his eyes, the faintest of smiles on his lips as the warmth from the grip swept over him, finally granting him a sense of peace in a world which normally offered him none.


	13. Moving On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn leaves

## Chapter 13: Moving On

Aragorn lost all sense of time. All he knew was that whenever he opened his eyes, Boromir would be there, sitting at his bedside, tending to his every need with a gentle touch and a soft look in his eyes.

_I have never seen his eyes so green, so filled with concern and affection before… not unless they were resting on Faramir_ , Aragorn had thought with fondness in his heart when he had awoken at one point.

The pain had been a constant companion and he had been endlessly tired. He would awake to drink a little and use the bed pot, with which he needed Boromir’s help and was too delirious and hurting to be embarrassed about. He would remember to smile at Boromir and his hand would search for Boromir’s until the younger boy found his and held it in a strong and secure grip. Too tired to form words, he let these actions speak for him. Only then, feeling safe and cared for, forgetting where he was and how he had come to be there, could he drift back to sleep.

This time when he awoke it was because Boromir was calling him, sitting at his bedside. He moaned softly but forced himself to come awake. The room was dark save for a small candle standing on his writing desk near the window. The night outside was dark and cloudy with only a few visible stars. The candlelight seemed to make a halo around Boromir’s dark blond hair, and for a moment or two, he seemed beautiful in an almost magical way, his profile the only thing detectable in the darkened room. Aragorn felt a moment of awe and pride, feeling the symbolism was fitting. The sight made him breathless and his heart beat faster in a manner he did not understand. Then Boromir turned and moved a bit toward him when he realised he was awake and the spell was broken.

Aragorn’s head felt like it was filled with cotton, as did his mouth. He felt stronger than he had in some time though and fought himself free of his covers, swinging his legs to the floor. His long white nightshirt only went to his knees and his lower legs and feet felt the coldness of the room. He took a pained gasp as he reached for the bed pot that stood beside the bed, waving Boromir’s helping arms away as he rose from the bed to do the deed he needed to do.

Boromir’s face closed a bit as he saw Aragorn had recovered enough now for the walls between them to be back up. He turned his back on Aragorn to grant him the privacy the older man’s dignity was now demanding.

When the task was done and the pot had been given to a servant who left the room with it, Aragorn sat heavily back down on the bed, and turned his attention back to Boromir. Boromir was dressed as if ready to go out, a warm and heavy cape lying over the chair next to Aragorn’s bed where he used to sit. Aragorn felt the small movement of sitting up and just emptying his bladder had taken the strength out of him. He lay back down on the bed, lying on his stomach. His wounds now hurt less and itched a lot more as new skin formed.

“What is going on?” Aragorn asked weakly, his voice hoarse from lack of use. His eyes travelled to the chair; too tired now to lift his hand in that direction so he nodded instead.

“There are some hours left before the dawn that will signal the third day since your… ordeal,” Boromir explained softly, his eyes open and cautious as he looked to the door and window as if to make sure they were alone.

Aragorn frowned. It had been such a short time? It had felt like more. “Is Faramir faring well?” he asked, worried, recalling the emotional distress the young boy had gone through that day.

Boromir’s features softened as they always did when there was mention of his brother and Aragorn’s concern clearly warmed his heart. “Even now you ask of others.”

Aragorn didn’t know how to reply to Boromir’s soft words so he remained silent.

Then Boromir’s eyes darkened with worry. “Truthfully, I worry for him. He has buried himself in his books and fairy tales. Oh, he studies and practises as intensely as ever but…” He paused and lowered his gaze to the floor, his voice going soft and full of regret and guilt. “I feel like I have lost a part of him.”

Without thinking, just knowing Boromir’s pain was agonizing to his heart, Aragorn reached a weak hand towards him and Boromir took it in his at once, coming to sit on the bed, their hands clasped together in a handshake that did not break. For a few moments more, the walls were down… just for a little while longer. They both needed that; both ignoring that they were present enough that they should have denied the contact, having been told time and again by Denethor that a man sought strength nowhere else than from within himself, a philosophy Aragorn did not share but had learnt to follow.

“You **did** lose a part of him but you kept more than you lost. As long as he has your protection, he will always hold more than he loses,” Aragorn said.

* * * *

  
The warmth and caring in Aragorn’s voice and eyes made Boromir’s cheeks heat in a way he couldn’t explain and he broke eye contact to look at the floor. For a moment they sat in comfortable silence, their hands still connected yet their eyes looking anywhere but at each other. Then Boromir reluctantly drew back, knowing that if he kept hanging on, he would never be able to let go again. Their hands fell apart.

“We have to move you,” he said regretfully.

“Move me?” Aragorn echoed, confusion clear in his voice.

“I do not believe you to be safe here any longer,” Boromir said darkly, worried.

“What are you saying?”   
  


“Aragorn,” Boromir began, emphasizing the name, the royal name, yet not sure how to voice his concerns, “you are 18 years of age now and no longer a child. My father has become aware of this as well, most notably the other night.”

“You think he will humiliate me like this again… that he will keep trying to break me,” Aragorn said, shock written on his face and clear in his voice. “Mayhap even try to get rid of me.”

Boromir was uncomfortable at hearing his fears voiced out loud. “I hope not but I… do not know”, he admitted, for the first time truly uncertain about how far his father’s temper would go. Then his eyes settled on Aragorn, a determined look in them. “But I see no reason to gamble when the stakes are your life.” He had made a vow to keep Aragorn safe, no matter the cost, and he would see that vow fulfilled. He wouldn’t and couldn’t stand by and see him humiliated like he had been the other day, no matter how painful was the thought of letting Aragorn go .

  
”You will order me out of your life this candidly?” Aragorn asked, his voice rising in distress and the beginnings of anger. He barely remembered to keep it down, knowing Faramir was sleeping in the other room and that the castle in general had to be asleep given the lateness of the hour. _How could he do that? Did he not know how much he meant to him? Had he closed himself off so completely?_ Aragorn was amazed at just how deeply the thought hurt him.

“By the Valar, Aragorn!” Boromir hissed, his eyes glimmering with rage and pain. “I do not candidly give away anything my heart has grown fond of!”  
  


Though angrily spoken, the truth, the affection in Boromir’s words, warmed Aragorn to his very soul. He nodded then, knowing this was as hard on Boromir as it was on him. He pulled himself together and focused on the task at hand, not wishing to force more words of emotion out of Boromir if he did not feel comfortable doing so.

“How will I get out of the citadel?”

“I contacted Gandalf when I went with Faramir yesterday to get him to his lesson. He will go with you and take you somewhere safe,” Boromir explained, calmer now and Aragorn nodded grim acceptance of this. Boromir knew his brother would miss Gandalf, his most beloved teacher, when he was gone, but this was the only way he had been able to come up with that would keep Aragorn safe.

Boromir went to Aragorn’s closet and pulled out a clean shirt, a cape, pants, socks and a pair of boots and put them all in front of Aragorn’s bed before he returned to Aragorn’s closet and began to put clothes and various things from his desk into a saddlebag he had left just inside the door to Aragorn’s chambers. From his drawers he took small drawings Faramir had given him and a book of Elven poetry Boromir had given him two years ago when Aragorn had been thrown from his horse and had been unconscious for days.

Everyone had feared the worst, and it had been the first time Boromir had begun to realise how much he had come to care for the older boy. Faramir had been sitting by Aragorn’s bed constantly and Boromir had run from Aragorn’s chambers and to his father’s side in a desperate attempt to cover over Aragorn’s critical state, afraid that Denethor would quickly give Aragorn up for dead if any healer gave him any indication such a decision could be grounded.

The race had paid off, but it had been a battle. The episode had reminded Boromir of how much he had gained the day Aragorn had come into his life, and how much he would have lost had the older boy been taken from his life. He had never been big on words, showing his emotions in gestures instead, and had therefore managed to get his hands on the rare book of Elven poetry for Aragorn, written by Elves in their own language and completely uncensored. Censorship was common when Elven books were translated as they often contained ideas or whole passages not compatible with Gondorian way of life.

Boromir had never understood the appeal Faramir and Aragorn saw in the art or the Elven culture in general, but unlike his father, he respected both of them too much not to respect this part of them as well, no matter if he understood it or not.

While Boromir packed, Aragorn rose to get dressed, but it was a pained and slow performance. He looked relieved that Boromir let him have the dignity of dressing himself despite the painful process it was.

“Are you ready?” Boromir asked, turning back to look at Aragorn now that he was dressed. Aragorn was still fighting to get his breathing under control as well as erase the strain and sweat from his brow that the task of dressing himself had cost him. As the last thing, Aragorn strapped the scabbard with his sword in it around his waist. Boromir was holding the saddlebag in one hand and held out a helping hand to Aragorn, lines of concern on his face. Visibly swallowing his pride, Aragorn let himself be supported by Boromir’s arm.

“Did you get it all?”

Boromir nodded as they slowly moved to the door, Aragorn gasping from the pain and the strain that walking caused. It was the first time he’d been up and about since his ordeal. Just as they neared the door to his chambers did the reality that he was about to leave everything behind seem to hit him and a wave of sorrow washed over him, not for leaving Gondor but for leaving Boromir and Faramir. They would have to fight alone now; he would not be there to try and help. He would not know how they would fare. He would not be there, period. There was so much he wanted to say…. What would Faramir think when he awoke the next morning to find him gone? He had been through so much already. And Boromir…. Somehow leaving him behind cut his heart in a different way than the thought of leaving Faramir did. If only he could make the coming years easier somehow…..

An idea struck him.

“Wait! Get me back to the desk,” he requested, and though puzzled by the request, Boromir did as he was bid.

Aragorn quickly took a piece of paper, and with the pen from his desk, wrote a short letter, while Boromir looked out the window to give him privacy. He folded it and sealed it with a dip of the candle wax from the candle standing on his desk. He wrote Faramir’s name on it before he quickly did the same with one for Boromir. He didn’t think as he wrote, he simply wrote what was in his heart. He chose to go for it all and hold nothing back. Pride and fear of losing what you had never had, had to Aragorn always seemed like poor excuses for not admitting to the people one cared for: family, friends or potential lovers, how much they meant to you. He had always tried to express his emotions whenever appropriate, but Boromir was not a man with which this was easy, so a letter would be the right approach; especially for him, for he knew Faramir needed to hear words of kindness as much as he needed to give them, just like he did.

Having finished and sealed both letters, Aragorn left them on the desk, fighting back the pain and tears of farewell, and a pang of regret that he would never know if his letters helped the two brothers who had become so close to his heart.

“Give it to Faramir when he awakes,” Aragorn requested, looking at Boromir and tears formed in the corners of his eyes when he thought of parting from Faramir. He pushed the thought of leaving Boromir away for now, as it was easier for him to relate to his emotions for Faramir, while his emotions for Boromir had become increasingly confusing to him. Faramir had become a brother to Aragorn in everything but blood and the urge to stay and protect him was strong.

“Come,” Boromir said softly, and without a word, he guided Aragorn into Faramir’s room and both young men stood and admired Faramir’s peaceful sleeping features.

“I wish he would always look like this,” Aragorn mumbled as he bent down and pressed a soft kiss to Faramir’s forehead, tenderness filling his heart.

Boromir looked at the small smile around Faramir’s lips, the relaxed limbs, the peaceful and calm expression on his face and nodded. “As do I,” he said softly, and with one last look at Faramir, Aragorn let himself be guided away and through the citadel.

Neither spoke as they walked, but a sadness settled between them. They might never see each other again. They had been together almost every day for four years and now… now it was like losing a piece of themselves.

All too soon they reached the backdoor the servants used, and outside, Gandalf sat on a beautiful white horse, holding a fine and young black stallion’s reins. Aragorn smiled at his friend and Gandalf smiled back, though there were worried lines in his old and wise face.

“I will be all right, my friend,” Aragorn calmed Gandalf when Boromir helped him closer, making sure Aragorn’s arm stayed around his neck and his own hand held on to Aragorn’s hand to make sure his arm remained around him for support.

They stopped beside the black stallion and Aragorn gasped in surprise when he recognized it. “This is your horse, Boromir,” he whispered in awe.

It was Boromir’s most beloved horse named Black Star. He had gotten it as a pony from his deceased mother and the horse moved with stealth and was as fast as the wind and as beautiful as a sunrise. It was Boromir’s pride and joy and he would ride him often to try and get his frustrations out through the freedom of Black Star’s speed, endurance and love for his master.

“He is yours now,” Boromir said softly, pain of parting from his animal friend in his voice, but his eyes showed that he was certain and sure of his decision.

Aragorn shook his head. “I cannot accept this.”

Boromir gave him a look he could not decipher that could cover a multiple of hopes or sins as he replied, “Bring him safely back to me.”

Aragorn wasn’t sure if Boromir was speaking to the horse or him, but the emotions in his voice were clear, so he just nodded, a lump in his throat. Boromir looked uncomfortable in the face of Aragorn’s open show of emotions, so to busy himself and avoid having to face them, he let the saddlebag fall to the ground and helped Aragorn into the saddle. He tried to be as gentle as possible but Aragorn still hissed in pain until he was finally on the horse. Boromir then fastened the saddlebag onto Black Star and stepped a bit back from the horse.

The deed done, Boromir lifted his head and looked up at Aragorn. So many emotions passed between them as their eyes met but not one was voiced. Boromir refused to let himself feel, to think about what he was doing, that Aragorn was leaving his life…. He could not go there. He had to be strong, for Faramir, for Gondor… for Aragorn. He had to make sure Aragorn was somewhere he would be safe emotionally and physically.

“Be well, my friend and my brother,” Boromir finally said, his voice soft and raw.

Aragorn nodded and their hands met, hand around wrist in a warrior’s farewell. “Find the peace to be happy, son of Gondor,” Aragorn said, not sure what else to say. Boromir carried a heavy burden and his inner torment worried Aragorn now that he would no longer be there to try and ease his burdens. 

  
Their hands fell apart and Gandalf let go of the horse’s reins as Aragorn took them.

“Safe journey,” Boromir wished him as he stepped back and Gandalf nodded in greeting to him.

“We will meet again, young Boromir,” the wizard promised mysteriously as he started to move out of the citadel but both Boromir and Aragorn took hope from the words.

Aragorn steered his horse after Gandalf, both moving out slowly so as not to wake anyone. He turned around in the saddle, ignoring the pain of being on horseback. “Boromir…” he began, not sure what to say but somehow wanting to say something that would make Boromir understand that both he and Faramir were cared for.

Boromir nodded grimly in response to his unspoken words as if he knew what he wanted to say. “I shall protect him,” Boromir calmed him, a promise in his voice, and they both knew about whom they were speaking.

“Do not let your father turn him… or you… into something you are not,” Aragorn pleaded, and suddenly had to physically fight the urge to dismount. What would Faramir do without him? He would be alone all day now that Boromir had more and more demands upon him. Boromir could not be with him all the time…. And what of Boromir? He had withdrawn so far. Would he be lost now? He would be all alone, no one to seek support from, even in his weakest moments, even when he could excuse it to himself… even when he would allow himself the weakness he felt asking for help was.

“I shall try,” Boromir said, seeming unwilling to make a vow he would not be able to keep. That Faramir should remain pure, he would fight for. Yet he knew he would, and probably already had, given his soul to keep it that way and he would continue to do so with no regrets. His brother’s life, and soul, were far more important to him than his own. As each year had passed, he had come to see that the same had become true of Aragorn.

Aragorn nodded and cast Boromir one last look, suddenly wishing he had embraced Boromir properly, but unsure if Boromir would have allowed it, even in such an emotional moment.

“I **will** be back,” he swore but he could see on Boromir’s face that he didn’t believe it.

Still, Boromir forced a smile. “I shall be here.”

Despite his obvious disbelief in Aragorn’s promise, there was a flicker of hope in Boromir’s voice and that brought Aragorn hope as well. _Keep that hope… please don’t let this last light go out inside yourself_ , Aragorn prayed of his cherished friend.

Aragorn nodded, and with one last look at the stoic young man who would smile only to his brother… and in rare glimpses of emotion and revelation, to him from time to time as well, Aragorn forced himself to turn back to face the road ahead and Gandalf.

“Where are we going?” he asked Gandalf as they reached the gate to the streets outside the citadel’s grounds. The hurt in his heart as he rode away from Boromir was far greater than the pain his injuries cost him and he had to keep reminding himself that he could not turn back.

“My old friend, Elrond’s, home in Rivendell.”

* * *

Boromir heard Gandalf’s reply just as both men disappeared out through the gates to the citadel and away into the night. Boromir remained standing, looking after them for a long time until he forced himself to go back to his own chambers. His soul was in turmoil but he forced all emotions away. He had seen Aragorn safe; that was all that mattered. Now, he needed to focus on Faramir and ensure he was taken care of as well.

Later that night, Boromir put Aragorn’s letter to Faramir on his bedside table and took the one for himself into his room. He sat staring at it for a long time until he put it away, unopened. As long as it remained unopened, a part of him could pretend Aragorn was still here somehow, somewhere. A ghost of solitude; of support… a silent helper as he had always been when he had been here in flesh and blood.

* * *

The next morning Faramir cried over the loss of the man who had become a beloved brother, second in heart only to Boromir and who had shared his passion for the Elven lore which no one else here did.

Faramir had read Aragorn’s letter for the first time that very morning. It was direct and honest and the clear emotions brought Faramir comfort and hope as he read the words.

_Brave, kind Faramir,_

_My brother in spirit._

_Though I have left, my presence still lingers. If you hurt, let my memories comfort you, if you are lonesome, remember my embrace._

_Above all, remember that I believe in you. No matter what happens, what others may say, you are a good boy and will grow to become a great leader of men. I am merely saddened I cannot be there to see it and ease the way for you._

_My love will remain yours forever._

_Your brother,_

_Aragorn_

Faramir smiled through his tears when he read Aragorn’s words, and as the years passed he would continue to smile through tears and pain every time he read the letter, letting the words soothe and comfort him. The ghost of Aragorn did indeed still linger and his presence eased and calmed Faramir. Despite the hurt he went through, the beatings he took, his soul remained pure and his heart remained open, thanks to the healing hands of the man who would be King, and the protective shield of his older brother’s love.

* * *

Boromir’s letter remained unopened though Boromir would sometimes take it out and look at it before putting it back in his drawer, fighting to keep a hope he no longer believed in alive through the dead letters on the paper. Without anyone to support him, anyone to lean on in any way, his heart closed and grew cold until only four things could move him: his brother, his father, Gondor itself…and the ghost of a man named Aragorn, long lost but never forgotten.

Thus the ghost of a man who would be King lingered in Boromir’s mind despite his best efforts to push all his thoughts, memories and emotions about him away. Aragorn became a torment and a reminder of a love, a support he could never regain, another burden, another loss, to a young soul already carrying the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders.


	14. Meeting Legolas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn meet Legolas

## Chapter 14: Meeting Legolas

Black Star was a magnificent horse but his very presence, as he carried Aragorn further and further away from the place he had come to call home, reminded him of what he was leaving behind. If someone asked him if the last four years had been terrible, if someone asked him if he would want to return…the answer would not be simple. He had often dreamt he could get away from the harsh demands of the Steward he had been bound to serve, but in his dreams Faramir and Boromir had always come with him. There was nothing like hardship and shared pained experiences to bond people together and Aragorn had grown to care more deeply for Faramir and Boromir than he had any, save his parents, and yet this care, this love, was different.

Boromir had never wished for his protection and Aragorn had been forced to see him fight alone and stand alone. However, he offered him solace and peace whenever he could, whenever Boromir was too physically exhausted to remain strong, trying to ease his burdens the only way Boromir would allow him to, often through silent comfort. Faramir had craved his love, attention and protection desperately and Aragorn had happily given it. Both Boromir and Faramir had valiant and self-sacrificing natures but ironically enough Boromir’s greatest sacrifices were silent and Faramir’s were ignored. By the Valar, how he would miss them!

He had thought he would miss Faramir most of all since he had spent most time with him, since they had been so alike, yet it was Boromir he found his thoughts resting on more than any other; it was he whom he worried for the most. Faramir could be hurt, beaten and a million of things in between, but though his body could break, Aragorn had never doubted that the boy’s spirit was pure and would remain so. This was also the cause of Faramir’s greatest hurts for it enabled him to hurt so easily yet it also enabled him to love and to forgive, to see all the roads in the wood and not just the one most travelled by.

Boromir on the other hand….His body was unbreakable but Aragorn wasn’t sure if his spirit was as well. That Boromir would grow to become a great warrior, he had no doubt, but would he also become a great man? Denethor’s blood was strongest in his oldest son…. Aragorn would like to believe his presence had been soothing to the darkness that he had always known was lurking deep within Boromir’s mind. Now, without him, would the love Boromir bore for his brother be enough to keep that darkness at bay? Would it be enough to prevent him from falling deeper and deeper into a ring of darkness, paranoia, fear and pain, like his father who was still falling, further and further and with greater and greater speed?

Aragorn had been travelling for many days now, Gandalf and his memories his sole companions. Despite Gandalf’s soothing presence, Aragorn was mostly quiet and thoughtful, brooding in his worry for those he left behind.

“You have been very quiet, young Aragorn. Is your mind troubled by being in the Wood Of Thieves?” Gandalf asked with a hand indicating the dark forest they were riding through side by side. They were still in Gondor but close to Rohan’s borders and would be passing Helm’s Deep on Gondor’s side if they had not already. From there they would go around the Misty Mountains to reach Rivendell. 

It was still a pleasant surprise to hear his true name spoken so openly, not having to whisper or look around to be sure they were alone. “The danger here is not what troubles me. You say your magic holds them back,” Aragorn nodded towards Gandalf’s staff and the stone on top of it, which was glowing faintly but faithfully, “and I have every faith in your abilities.” Aragorn fell silent, thoughtful, and Gandalf let him have his silence. “Nay, my friend,it is what I leave behind and not what I am moving towards which is on my mind.”

  
“What you are looking for could be ahead and not behind,” Gandalf said mysteriously.

“You have never said as much but I knew you would not elect to stay hidden in Minas Tirith for four years, risking Denethor’s wrath, if not you felt you were educating a King,” Aragorn said softly, calmly, his eyes meeting and holding Gandalf’s. With years he had become more comfortable with his likely role as King even though he still was doubtful of what precisely he should do about it.

“The future has many faces,” Gandalf admitted, “Elrond has the gift of foresight and shares this knowledge with me at times. In one future…who I educated were a King and his Steward.”

Aragorn’s stomach twisted in fear, focusing on only one word in that sentence. “S... Steward? Yet Faramir is not the oldest son….” His voice died away. That could only mean one thing; in one possible future, he would be King, Faramir would be his Steward… and Boromir would be dead. That this implied Denethor died as well didn’t even register as more than a fleeting thought. He would shed no tears for the Steward and was not even able to mourn the loss of the life at the moment, not when his back was still paining him despite Gandalf’s help and magic, which had made the pain lessen and the healing speed up.

“Yet this future does not have to come to pass,” Aragorn said, the question more a desperate plea. He had to fight his urge to ride back to Minas Tirith to assure himself Boromir was still alive and to stay there and guard over him to ensure he remained so. Boromir could not die; he would not allow it! The very thought made a cold hand close around his heart and made breathing difficult. 

Gandalf smiled faintly. “No, it does not. That is only one of many possible futures.”

“Yet in them all you see me reclaiming Gondor…. You see my line, the line of Isildur, back as rulers of Gondor?” Aragorn asked softly, the question more a realisation as he tried to come to terms with a possibility, which was now much more a certainty, for he had every faith in Gandalf and any Elven abilities.

Gandalf nodded seriously. “I do.” Likely able to see the weight of a too heavy burden in Aragorn’s voice and eyes, he added reassuringly, “When the time is right, you will find the strength to become a King. Until then do not torment yourself with thoughts on how to govern a land not yet yours to lead or to worry about.”

Aragorn nodded and forced himself not to think about it. If he did his head would start hurting more than his wounds on his back. For now he pushed that thought as well as his worry for Boromir aside. He would worry about Kingship when the time came and losing Boromir was simply not an option. He would not allow it to become an option!

He was about to express his thanks to Gandalf for his honesty and support when a sudden noise stopped him. More noise followed; sounds of yelling and fighting.

“Where?” Aragorn asked, tensing, one hand going to the sword by his side. He looked around, searching for an opponent, knowing that Orcs had become more and more daring, yet so far from Mordor they should have been safe from them at least, if not other agents of evil.

“There!” Gandalf pointed some distance ahead into the forest at the same time that Aragorn spotted a beautiful and elegantly dressed, slimly built male rider fighting off some thirty men on horseback with his bow, the shots coming inhumanly fast, every one cutting down a rider. The rider was faced away from them as his attackers came from the sides and the front so his face was hidden from Aragorn and Gandalf. He had long blond hair, hanging loose, and wore a beautifully decorated and warm cape.

Without a second thought Aragorn pulled on his horse, and with Gandalf close behind, he raced to the man’s aid. He drew his sword before he reached them and soon he was beside the stranger, cutting down some of the ill looking, and even worse smelling, big men whose devious deeds had given the forest its name as the Forest of Thieves.

With the stranger’s deadly aim and fast arrows, together with both Aragorn and Gandalf’s swords, all the thieves were soon slain or had fled back into the forest.

“Are you unhurt?” Aragorn asked worriedly, putting his sword back into its scabbard and turning his horse around to face the stranger. He hadn’t gotten a good look at him during the fight. Now that he did he had to gasp in surprise and awe. It was an Elf. And not just any Elf. Delicately boned with high cheekbones, long blond hair and blue eyes like the ocean, this was an Elf who made it clear to Aragorn that the legend about Elves and their great but delicately looking beauty had not been exaggerated. His first thought was, _wait till I tell Faramir this_ , but then he recalled he might never seen him again and a little of his amazement and joy at finally seeing a real Elf faded in the face of his loss.

“I am, thank you kindly for your assistance,” the Elf said as he put his bow away. He was dressed in fine, long and warm robes, beautifully coloured and decorated and looked very out of place in the rough forest.

“Legolas!” Gandalf said warmly with surprise in his voice as he too got his horse up alongside the Elf’s, and also first now saw who it was they had assisted. “This is a surprise, though a pleasant one.”  
  


Legolas smiled at the wizard in greeting and Aragorn was stunned that this eternal creature could look even more beautiful, even more…ethereal. “My heart is glad to find you well.”

“This is my friend, Aragorn. Aragorn, this is the Prince of Mirkwood, Legolas,” Gandalf introduced.

Aragorn reached out his hand and shook Legolas’ around the wrist, and by Legolas’ surprised look, he gathered Elves did not greet each other thus. He released the Elf and drew back on his horse. “A pleasure, Your Highness.”

Legolas smiled warmly and shook his head. “No titles between friends, for surely a man who rushes into the heart of danger to save a stranger must now be a friend.”

Aragorn nodded his thanks and smiled, thinking that yes, indeed, he could become fast friends with this eternal creature.

“Let us move on,” Gandalf said and they all turned their horses toward Rivendell.

“May I ask what an Elf is doing this far south?” Aragorn asked as they rode on, not even realizing that in his interest in Legolas, the miracle of talking to a real life Elf, a lifetime wish of his, he had, for a while, managed to forget the pain of leaving Faramir and Boromir behind.

“I was in Rivendell visiting Lord Elrond on behalf of Mirkwood and my father when Lord Elrond told me no one had heard from Gandalf since he had gone to Minas Tirith. He asked if I could make sure his old friend was unharmed and since I had not been in Gondor for hundreds of years, and was curious to see what changes the hand of time had done, I agreed.”

“Elrond always did worry too much,” Gandalf complained but there was a smile on his lips.

“We are going towards Rivendell ourselves. If you are going back that way you can journey with us,” Aragorn suggested and Legolas nodded.

“I would enjoy doing so.”

The rest of the trip was uneventful, and as the days passed, Aragorn and Legolas became fast friends. Aragorn was curious and eager to know everything about the Elven culture and Legolas was eager to tell and just as eager to know about the human ways. When the trio reached Rivendell, Legolas and Aragorn had created a bond that would only strengthen as the years passed.

* * *

The presence of this bond would ease Aragorn’s mind, and as time passed, Aragorn’s amazement with Legolas as an elf, and with his shining beauty also faded and became the warm love of a friend and bond brother.

Legolas stayed with Aragorn in Rivendell to help him settle into his new home with Lord Elrond who took the young human in. The ruler of Rivendell took a quick liking to Aragorn due to his calm ways and characteristics, which were similar to the Elves. Despite the comfort the bond to Legolas brought Aragorn, on many a night Legolas would find his friend out on the balcony of his room in Lord Elrond’s palace, looking longingly out to the south, towards Gondor. Aragorn would try to find a measure of peace in the stars but for once their cold and constant beauty was not enough to ease his heart.

With a friendly smile and a warm hand on his arm, Legolas would lead him back inside and offer to do any number of activities with him from simply admiring Rivendell’s beauty to riding or reading in an attempt to take Aragorn’s mind off his worry for the brothers he had left behind.

Still, even though Aragorn would say he was happy here, in the heart of beauty, serenity and peace, the knowledge that Faramir and Boromir were still back there, close to the growing threat of Mordor and battling to find love and a safe harbour, would haunt his dreams no matter how hard he tried to tell himself that, for now, there was nothing he could do. Not yet at least.

Not yet…. But one day. One day he would return to Gondor and to the friends, the family, he had left behind. That vow, that thought, kept his worry and longing at bay.

One day.


	15. Rivendell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn grows up in Rivendell and learns a few things of Elven culture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter for this update. I hope this large update can help someone through this hard time. If you are enjoying the story please let me know by giving a kudos and/or leaving feedback. It would mean a lot to me. Thank you

## Chapter 15: Rivendell

Rivendell was everything Aragorn had ever dreamt it would be and much more. Its beauty and grace was without equal. Living in this city was the complete opposite of Gondor. While Minas Tirith had faded further and further, becoming a shadow of its former glory, marked by death and war, lying in constant darkness, Rivendell was light, serenity, flowers and stillness.

The city seemed to be bathed in forever light and warmth, an eternal summer. The houses were fine and elegant and all colours were soft and bright. All the Elves were elegantly boned with beautiful long hair and wearing long robes of amazing colour and fine details and decorations. In fact, the attention to detail was amazing here. Nothing was left to coincidence. Everything was carved, cut or jewelled to give the utmost beauty.

It took Aragorn some time to get over his shock and amazement at seeing the people and culture he had admired for so long up close. After a while he began to understand that this culture, like any other, had its advantages and disadvantages – its strengths and weaknesses, though his admiration and love for it remained strong. It also took him some years to feel completely at ease here, most of all with Lord Elrond.

His new benefactor, and later, adoptive father was as much a leader as Denethor was. He was strong, opinionated and stubborn, but unlike Denethor, he was neither paranoid nor unfair. Despite having had bad experiences with humans, he welcomed Aragorn and treated him like an Elf. Like Denethor he had high hopes for Aragorn and soon Aragorn was studying Elven language, history and culture, doing so gladly and with great interest. Though Elrond was more subdued than Aragorn’s own father would have been when Aragorn excelled, he was equally subdued in his anger and disappointment.

Elrond also told Aragorn that he had offered to take him in when his parents had died because his mother’s family had ties to Rivendell. It had been a loose connection from a time long since past but Elves never forgot bonds of blood, honour or debt. This news had lightened Aragorn’s heart but though he knew his life could have been easier and very different had he never gone to Minas Tirith, he would not have given up the love and care he had experienced through Faramir and Boromir just so he could have avoided the humiliation and pain he had suffered. In the end all his pain had seemed justified for the joy he had felt when being with the two Gondorian brothers and the kinship that had developed.

As the years passed, Aragorn did not see Elrond lose his temper even once. Not even when Aragorn accidentally destroyed one of his favourite and very old books. He had been so sure he would be punished for it, had expected it, and when none had been given, he had been slightly confused. It had taken years for him to get over the feeling of being watched and being forever cautious, expecting a sharp word or punishment for any wrongdoing. 

Slowly, Aragorn grew from admiring Elrond to loving him like the adoptive father he had become, and Elrond came to love his human son as if he was his own.

Elrond had twin sons, Elladan and Elrohir, both grown. Aragorn got along well with them but felt they had little in common. He spent most of his time with Legolas and Arwen, Elrond’s beautiful daughter and the youngest of the Elven race. Arwen had an innocence to her none of the other Elves had. Despite the purity of their souls, the older Elves had all seen battle. Only Arwen, and to a degree, Legolas, were untouched by the pain of years. Legolas, being the youngest of the King of Mirkwood’s sons, had been protected all his life, yet his natural curiosity and wanderlust had broadened his horizon and given him more outlook than Arwen had. Though flattered, Aragorn knew this was why Arwen had fallen in love with him. Beautiful, faithful, loyal and brave, Arwen would have been everything any man could ever wish for in a wife…if he had been looking for a wife. Arwen had even offered him her immortality, thinking this had been the reason behind his hesitation. He had grown to love Arwen as a sister and had been saddened to have to break her heart but something had told him it was more fascination and a desire to love someone that had led her to him than who he was.

Things had turned out for the best when Aragorn had confided in Legolas who had said he had loved Arwen for years but had waited for her to mature, and now, when he felt she had, he had gallantly stepped aside for Aragorn. When Aragorn told him he did not love the Elven Princess in that way, Legolas had been delighted, and one year before Aragorn’s 27th birthday, Legolas and Arwen announced their engagement.

To Arwen, who had never left Rivendell, Legolas had been one Elf she could easily come to love. Unlike humans, outer beauty was never an issue with the Elves for they were all beautiful and fair creatures. No, it was Legolas’ wanderlust, fascination with certain human aspects, open mind and valiant, warm, and loving soul, which made him able to conquer Arwen’s heart. When she had fallen in love with Legolas, Arwen had realized she had never really loved Aragorn in this way and they were once more the best of friends; all three of them.

Aragorn was certain that in at least one of Elrond’s visions for the future he had seen Aragorn, the king without a country, as the suitor for his daughter because Elrond had warned Aragorn early on that he would not accept him as a suitor until he had his kingdom back. As it was now Elrond had easily invited the tolerant, curious, youthful, and spirited Prince Legolas into the family. Not like other Elves, Legolas would make sure there could be a bridge between the Elves of the past and the Elves to come.

His own reaction to Arwen had surprised Aragorn. She had been perfect in every way. A marriage with her would even further a political alliance between Rivendell and Gondor. Then why had he said no? Why had he been unable to love her any differently than he would his own sister had he had one? Could it be that someone else already owned his heart without him realizing it?

During his years in Rivendell, in the mist of various lessons and preparations to become a leader, not only of men, but of Middle Earth in general, Aragorn thought long and hard about this. He knew his heart and thoughts were still in Gondor, and he began to wonder, now that he was of age and no longer ignorant of the physical aspects of love, just what kind of love he was feeling for Boromir. It was not the same kind of love he felt for Faramir. The youngest son of the Steward held Aragorn’s love and affection as a child and as a brother but Boromir was different. A brother, yes, but more than that. Deeper than that. Yet what love could be deeper than that? He knew he loved Legolas like a brother, and yet this love was different from what he felt for Boromir. However, he could not describe why or in what way.

It was not until he saw warrior bondings in Rivendell, male Elves who had loved and lived together with other males for thousand of years, that Aragorn even realized that a man could love another with this kind of love. He was not able to explain why such bondings were so easy for him to accept; his nature was simply such that he felt any free man, or Elf in this case, should be free to choose his own destiny, including his love. Yet this new knowledge brought more questions for him. Was it this kind of love he felt for Boromir? He had never considered it before. They had been brothers and too young to think in such a fashion. As they had grown, they had visited the whorehouses together the way young men of power did, doing this together as they had spent most of their time together. He had never before thought of Boromir in a physical way, as a potential lover; he had only thought, only known, that he did not wish to part from him. In his mind he had made up fairytales, often together with Faramir, about Boromir and him living somewhere, far out into a beautiful forest, raising Faramir together while hunting, reading and doing various other activities they enjoyed, yet the issue of any kind of romantic or sexual relationship had not even entered his mind.

Now that he had thought about it, had seen the love and joy in the eyes of the Elves who had a lover of the same sex, Aragorn found he did not mind the thought of having a male lover, and though he had never thought about it before he saw nothing wrong with it. The more he thought about it, the more his desire to feel Boromir’s body next to his grew. He yearned to feel his lips, his arms, his embrace and his touch..... He began to dream of making love to him, hearing him moan with desire, feel his naked body, hot, warm and sweaty against his own and see green eyes filled with longing and heat looking at him.

However, he knew as a man of royal blood, even if Gandalf’s future of him as King of Gondor did not come to pass, he needed an heir to carry on the line of Kings. If his desires and dreams concerning Boromir should ever become more than that, he would need to balance his passion with logic. If Boromir were his lover and consort, he would have to have a morganatic wife who could bear him children. It was not unusual for Kings to have morganatic wives, though normally they had a Queen they married for political reasons, and their morganatic wife was their true love match. She would have to be of noble birth, a woman willing to bear his children but who would have no official position, influence or power. A woman who would be sent away from the palace in Minas Tirith as soon as the children were born so they could be raised with Boromir. In return for this, she would get the title as Princess as well as land and riches. The title of Queen, none would wear, for its equivalent would already be held by Boromir. While difficult, it could be done to find such a woman. With effort, such a future could come to pass.

The two greatest questions were, even if Boromir felt likewise, and that was a very big if, would he agree to a life such as this and if yes…would he be able to live with it? Boromir was a proud man, raised to believe a man acting the part of a woman was wrong. In Aragorn’s mind, emotions and love were not weak or otherwise ‘female’ virtues but Boromir had been raised to believe so. The second question was, if Aragorn really did love Boromir in this way when dreams met reality, and if yes, would he be willing to put Boromir and himself through the hardships their love would surely have to survive. Was this love really that strong? Here, safe in Rivendell, doing a thinking game, seeing male lovers treated with respect and as equals, their love seen as a natural and beautiful thing, it was easy to say yes but reality was very different from a dream. Maybe, if Boromir felt likewise, he would rather have a few nights of passion, in secret, unknown to everyone, than go for it all. Yet Boromir’s pride would prevent a secret love. Aragorn was fairly certain of this.

After years of torturous wondering, Aragorn came to the conclusion that, at this point, he did not know anything for certain and there was no reason to wonder about what ifs’. Yet this did not stop his passionate dreams, his deep longing, his growing fear of seeing his dreams shattered, nor his worry for the young man he had left behind.

The years in Rivendell flew by filled with lessons, fancy clothes, beauty, serenity and maturity. It was years of growth where Aragorn learned to trust himself and his instincts. He refined his ranger skills and his skills at court. He matured under Elrond and Gandalf’s masterful hands and grew into a compassionate, kind hearted, but also strong, and confident man. No, more than a man… a King. A King ready to reclaim the country that had been lost to him… a King ready to reclaim the family, the love, that had been taken from him, in whatever form that love might come.


	16. Return To Minas Tirith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn returns to Minas Tirith

## Chapter 16: Return To Minas Tirith

Despite the serenity of Rivendell, Aragorn had become aware of a darkness drawing near, as the Elves had. His years with the Elvenkind had gifted Aragorn with many of their skills and secrets, and when he had been living in the wild, refining his Ranger skills, he had learned to listen to the earth and the forbearing it was whispering.

The threat from Mordor had grown rapidly through the years, aided by an unknown but powerful force. Orcs were getting bolder, coming from the direction of Isengard for reasons none could decipher. With the increasing number of Orcs in the forests he had travelled through between Rivendell and the Misty Mountains, Aragorn knew the forces at Gondor’s gates would be even more plentiful. News travelled slow and news from Gondor, now more or less a closed land since it had cut all connections to its last ally, Rohan, were almost none existent. Aragorn did not know Boromir or Faramir’s fate but he knew both, in particular Boromir as oldest son and as Captain-General of Gondor’s armies until he became Steward of Gondor, would in particular be on the frontline.

Aragorn knew Boromir would never send his soldiers into a battle he did not lead, standing in front of them, leading them, giving Aragorn many a worry for his safety, fearing he could be long dead without him even knowing it. He wished to believe he would know somehow, feel it, if Faramir or Boromir died yet he feared he would not. 

Some time after Aragorn’s 27th birthday, the day he had both dreaded and longed for came to pass. The day for him to return to Gondor.

The danger from Mordor grew so great that Gandalf and Elrond knew something was underway yet they were not sure of what it was. Gandalf decided to travel to The Shire to visit an old friend, the Hobbit Frodo, to see if the Orc threat had reached that far. Elrond had asked if anyone would volunteer to go to Gondor to retrieve information about the threat from Mordor and Aragorn had volunteered at once. Legolas, who had been watching over his friend as bond brothers do, would not to be persuaded to stay behind. After a heartfelt farewell between the young lovers, Arwen and Legolas parted for the first time since they had announced their love.

The journey from Rivendell to Minas Tirith was long and filled with many more dangers than when Aragorn had taken it towards Rivendell nine years earlier. Despite the dangers, the man and the elf made a good pace, and with skill at both avoiding and confronting the enemy, neither of them received any injuries during the journey.

Though Aragorn recalled how dull and grey he had found Minas Tirith when he had first seen it as a young boy, entering it now, all these years later, made it seem even darker when Rivendell’s light and beauty stood so clearly in his mind. The further toward Mordor the two companions travelled, the darker the sky became and the uneasier Legolas felt, sensing the stench of evil in the very air itself. Aragorn’s mind had been more occupied with his hopes and fears for the two brothers of Gondor. Were they safe? Had the years been kind to them? Did they still remember him, and if so did they recall him fondly? Would he still feel as strongly for them when they were finally face to face? How would he feel when standing before Boromir once more? His emotions in that area was confused enough as it were. The closer Aragorn came to Gondor, the more these thoughts tormented his every waking moment and haunted his dreams. 

Minas Tirith was in a state of organized chaos when Legolas and Aragorn rode into the city. Though both were dressed for travel, the fact that Legolas was an elf should have made more people look, and the fact that they did not worried Aragorn, for it meant something bad had happened or was about to.

They reached the palace and rode into the courtyard. It was a strange feeling for Aragorn to be here again in full daylight. The last time he had been here in daylight had been the day… the day Boromir had killed Kanó, a day that still haunted Aragorn’s nightmares.

Aragorn’s eyes searched for a familiar face but all he saw were troops getting ready to leave or runners entering the courtyard and running to and from the palace with orders and messages.

Aragorn spotted some rangers and he recalled that Boromir had spoken about letting Faramir command the rangers when he was Captain-General of the city because the ranger duties would take his younger brother far from the capital and their father’s hurtful words. It would allow Faramir to gain military experience in the forests, surrounded by men loyal to him, hopefully enabling him to develop faith in himself and his own abilities as a leader. Aragorn turned his attention to the rangers and rode towards them.

First, when Aragorn saw the young man addressing the rangers he did not recognize him. He was tall, almost as tall as Aragorn. His hair was slightly curly, shoulder length and light brown. His built was fit and that of a warrior yet still it had a grace and spirituality that matched the emotions in his eyes. It was his eyes and the way all his emotions were reflected there and in his face that gave him away.

“Faramir.” The word was a shocked whisper but Faramir heard and turned his attention towards him, puzzlement in his eyes. He had been speaking to his men from atop his horse, apparently so engrossed in what he had been saying that he had not noticed the rider moving towards him.

Faramir’s surprise, shock and then joy were clearly reflected in his face. “Aragorn!” he yelled happily and rode the short distance between them before he jumped from his horse and went to stand beside Aragorn’s horse, looking up at him while he smiled widely. “You have returned!”

Aragorn nodded, a lump in his throat. All these years worrying and wondering… Faramir was unhurt! He felt such relief, he was almost light-headed.

“You have grown up in my absence,” Aragorn said softly, a hint of regret in his voice that he had not been there to witness it.

“So have you. You are more like a King now than you ever were,” Faramir said warmly. He had never feared for Aragorn; though Boromir had never told him where he had went or why, Faramir had always been convinced he was with the Elves and therefore he had been sure he would be safe, well and happy. At Aragorn’s surprised look at his words, he smiled fondly and added, “No one told me; I figured it out.”

  
“I should have known you would,” Aragorn said as he handed his horse’s reins to Legolas, who was still on horseback beside him, and jumped from his horse to stand beside the man who had been his brother. Now that they were both grown men, Aragorn was suddenly unsure of what to do and how to approach him. Logically he had known Faramir would not be a child when he returned, yet in his heart, he had never changed or grown.

Faramir smiled at him before his face grew serious, not seeing Aragorn’s hesitation in his joy at his return. “Your letter warmed my heart and to this day still does. I carry it with me in my shirt pocket when I leave the citadel to remind myself of the great trust you put in me from the start so I do not fail you.”

Aragorn saw the sadness, the pain, in his voice and eyes as he mentioned that word, fail, and suddenly all his hesitation melted away and Aragorn gathered him in a warm embrace. “You could never fail me, little brother. Never.”  
  


Faramir returned the embrace heartfelt before reluctantly drawing back, tears glimmering in his eyes as he did so. “Brother of my spirit,” Faramir whispered and Aragorn nodded and smiled, moved by his words; that he used the same he had written so long ago and had remembered them by heart.

“Always.”

The moment seemed to last forever but was only a few seconds before Aragorn looked away at Legolas who had jumped from his horse and was now standing beside Aragorn holding the reins from both horses, patiently waiting, giving them time and space.

“Faramir, I have someone special I would like you to meet,” Aragorn began and nodded towards Legolas, warmth and light humour in his voice, hoping Faramir’s childhood dreams were still alive somewhere within the young man who stood before him.

Only now did Faramir notice him and his smile and the hand he had extracted in greeting died in midair. “It’s…” Faramir began, turning to Aragorn before he turned back to Legolas, shock, joy and disbelief on his face. “You’re an elf!”

Legolas smiled, a sparkle of warm humour in his eyes. “I have been so for the last 6000 odd years, Steward’s son.”

“Please, call me Faramir,” Faramir insisted with a wide smile as he recovered from the shock and took Legolas’s arm in a warrior’s greeting, which Legolas had expected from knowing Aragorn.

Aragorn smiled fondly at the look of awe and amazement in Faramir’s eyes, as he looked at Legolas; he had probably itched to touch him to reassure himself he was real. “I am glad to see some things have not changed,” Aragorn said softly. Though he had been more worried for Boromir’s soul, Faramir could still have suffered a great deal and it was hard to stay hopeful and open in a world filled with darkness. Yet to Aragorn’s great joy and relief somehow Faramir seemed to have done just that.

“Are you preparing for battle?” Legolas asked, nodding at the buzzing activity of men coming and going.

Faramir grew serious at once, falling back into the role of leader of the rangers. “Yes. Orcs are invading our borders from Mordor, pushing us harder and further for each day.”

Legolas and Aragorn shared a worried look. “All across Middle Earth the threat from Mordor has been growing,” Aragorn told Faramir, frowning in concern.

“Yet it is with Gondor’s blood, everyone else’s borders are kept safe,” a hard, almost challenging voice said from behind them. A voice Aragorn would have recognized anywhere.

“Boromir.” He fought to say the name calmly, tried to get his heartbeat under control but he wasn’t sure if he succeeded. He had so many emotions running through him, he couldn’t identify them all, but there was one thing he now knew for sure; his feelings for Boromir were stronger than ever. He knew for a fact the smile on his lips stayed as he turned to look up at Boromir where he was seated on his horse, his warm smile only a small hint to the great joy he felt at seeing the other man again. Yet above all he felt relief beyond words that Boromir too was safe.

Boromir looked like he had nine years ago only… older. He still had a warrior’s firm body, an almost regal air and a leader’s calm. With more scars, more dead and emotionless eyes, a harsher voice, rougher hands…. He looked older than he should have and Aragorn knew something worse than time had aged him. Still his eyes, those green eyes Aragorn had dreamt of, were still as haunting as he recalled them.

“Aragorn?” Boromir asked, sounding surprised and his scowl faded and became a happy smile. His eyes became warmer and his face more relaxed. “It eases my heart to see you well.”

Even in his joy, he seemed to remain calm as he gave Aragorn a warrior’s greeting, still seated atop his horse. Aragorn felt a sting of hurt and emptiness at the lack of more contact but forced those feelings aside. Of course Boromir, now a grown man, would think embraces were for children, lovers and womenfolk and Boromir would not wish to be counted as any of those. Maybe when they were alone… He was certain Boromir still embraced Faramir, yet he was also fairly certain that in Boromir’s eyes Faramir wasn’t grown yet but remained the sweet child he needed to protect, love and care for.

“And mine you,” Aragorn said back with a renewed smile, pushing his disappointment of the subdued greeting away. He should have known Boromir would probably greet him in this manner even if he had hoped for something more, something deeper to acknowledge the strong bond they had shared. Still, the warmth in his green eyes when Boromir looked at him would be enough to ease his heart for a long time to come. 

Boromir felt a wave of reassurance wash over him when he had scanned Aragorn’s body and found him unharmed. Then his eyes found Legolas and they hardened at once.

Aragorn noticed Boromir’s changed attention and reluctantly released his arm before he said, “Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, this is Boromir, oldest son of the Steward of Gondor, and Captain-General of Gondor’s armies, I assume?” He added the last part with a mildly questioning look at Boromir, fairly certain this had not changed.

Boromir nodded to this and reached out his hand. The handshake was brief and formal and there was no doubt from Boromir’s reaction that he did not like Legolas much.

“You reached Rivendell well?” Boromir asked with a hint of concern, turning back to Aragorn and ignoring Legolas now that he had done what politeness dictated.

Aragorn had often been on Boromir’s mind, tormenting his days and nights with his ghostly presence. He had feared for his safety and hoped he was happy. Yet above all Boromir had fought to pretend that a part of Aragorn had never left; now he could no longer do that. He had wanted, needed to pretend he still had Aragorn’s calm and silent support, concern and care through all the years they had been apart. Yet it was clear to him now that Aragorn had grown and changed. He was a man now, no, a King. He no longer needed his protection; he no longer needed him at all. He now had an Elf by his side and it was clear he meant a lot to Aragorn, and the warmth and closeness between them felt like a knife in Boromir’s heart.

He felt his soul being torn apart; one part of him was pleased that Aragorn had spent the last many years in safety and surrounded by beings who loved him and whom he obviously loved in return, yet a part of him was jealous and bitter; these last many years had not been kind on him and the illusion that Aragorn had stayed with him, that he somehow still wanted, cared for and needed a part of him, was what had kept him going when Faramir’s endless love had not seemed enough to keep the darkness at bay. Now, he could no longer play pretend… he could no longer pretend he had not lost the man who had come to be second only to Faramir in his heart. He knew it was stupid and senseless but he needed someone to blame for his loss and he couldn’t blame Aragorn. He didn’t think he could ever blame a man who had saved his brother and whom he had grown so fond of, so, justified or not, he blamed the Elf instead. Years of listening to his father’s angry and scornful words about the Elven race made the decision even easier.

Aragorn felt a pang of hurt and anger at Boromir’s distance to Legolas but it was more because he did not wish to one day be forced to choose between a bond brother and a man who was as beloved as a brother, yet in a different way, if only he could get it sorted out in his head and heart. “Yes. I have been in Rivendell since leaving here.”

  
“I would wish to see the beauty of the fabled Elven city some day,” Faramir said with a dreamy look and Legolas gave him a warm smile, already apparently liking the youngest of the brothers. Boromir, on the other hand, worried him but Aragorn thought highly of him so Legolas would not jump to conclusions. Most Elves were also very subdued in their display of emotions so this fact did not bother him; it was the coldness in his stare when he looked at anyone but Faramir and Aragorn that made the Elf fear for the man’s heart and soul.

“I would be honoured to show it to you, as well as any other Elven places you might wish to see, providing it is permitted to me to show this to mortal eyes,” Legolas told Faramir.

Faramir nodded, clearly moved by Legolas’ gesture, knowing the Elf’s word was his bond. “I would be honoured.”

“There is naught there which Gondor could not provide,” Boromir broke in, his voice harsh and cold. Fear of losing his brother now that he felt he had already lost Aragorn to the lure of elves, made his words have more bite than he had intended.

Faramir gave him a half wounded look but let it go. “Not that I am not very pleased to see you again but what brings you back to Minas Tirith?” Faramir asked of Aragorn to keep his heart from feeling hurt over his brother’s harsh words; words that echoed in his mind like his father’s. Boromir was rarely unkind to him in any way and the few times he had been always hurt worse than anything ever had.

“The growing threat from Mordor made my journey here necessary.”

“You are a fool to return,” Boromir said harshly, still not sure why he felt so upset in regard to seeing Aragorn with the elf. It certainly wasn’t jealousy; that would be absurd. “I did not have you taken out in secret, guard your whereabouts even under the bite of the lash so you could return and get yourself killed in clear daylight.”

“I am sorry you suffered for me,” Aragorn said softly, sadly. He felt guilt and compassion at Boromir’s words, wishing he could have spared him such pain and humiliation though he had always known this was a possibility. Denethor would wish to know where he was and would not rest until he found a satisfactory answer.

“I made my choice,” Boromir said with a shrug as if whatever pain he had suffered was not important, and to him it had not been. Aragorn’s safety and happiness was worth it… and much more. 

“I owe you a great debt,” Aragorn said sincerely, heartfelt, unsure of how to thank him, how to say everything that was in his heart.

“You owe me nothing but to stay alive.” Boromir dismissed the gesture with a wave of his hand.

  
Aragorn wanted to offer words of thanks and sympathy but did not know how to express them without Boromir feeling he was belittling his actions or patronizing him; both things he would hate him for. So instead he chose to get down to business. “I come here as a grown man, and under Lord Elrond of Rivendell’s protection. Legolas and I are, officially, here as ambassadors of Rivendell and Mirkwood and any harm to our persons will be taken as an attack on those two nations,” Aragorn explained, moved and hopeful by Boromir’s poorly veiled concern for his welfare.

“If you are ambassadors then let us bid you welcome as such,” Boromir said with a small smile, relieved that Aragorn in this way would be safe while in Gondor. However, Aragorn’s words of allegiance to Rivendell made him frown slightly; he really had lost him to the Elves. “Father is in the throne room. You’d better go present yourself.” His feelings of hurt, abandonment and betrayal had Boromir’s last words come out harsher than he had first intended.

“When do you ride into battle?” Aragorn asked as Boromir was about to steer his horse away and continue organizing the battle.

Aragorn’s words stopped Boromir. “Tomorrow at dawn.”

“I will ride with you,” Aragorn said, not wishing to lose Boromir now that he had found him again. He had grown colder in the last nine years but all was not lost; there was the same love in Boromir’s eyes when he looked at Faramir and he still cared for him; Aragorn could see it, hidden but still there.

“As will I,” Legolas said.

“This is not your fight,” Aragorn protested, not wishing Legolas to risk his immortal life under any circumstances and certainly not in a battle not his own.

“It is yours… that makes it mine as well,” Legolas said simply and Aragorn smiled fondly and laid a hand on his shoulder for a few seconds, moved by his loyalty and affection.

“I shall call on you then,” Boromir promised, his eyes narrowing when he saw the warm moment that passed between Legolas and Aragorn.

“I wish to—” Faramir began.

“No!” Boromir said sternly before he sighed, indicating they’d had this debate before. “We have agreed you attack with the rangers, from a distance, leading the arrow charge.”

“I wish to charge with you,” Faramir said stubbornly, a hint of childish defiance and courage in his voice.

“You are too young.”

“I am 17 winters. I am no longer a child.” He seemed sad but not angry at Boromir’s dismissal and Aragorn could understand them both. Faramir wanted to prove himself while Boromir wanted to protect him.

Boromir looked around to be sure they were alone before he looked down at his brother from his horse and smiled warmly. “When you turn 18, you will be a man and I can no longer keep you safe with a command but until then I ask you to do as I order, for I ask out of affection and not scorn.”

Faramir nodded, clearly moved by Boromir’s rare words of love and smiled warmly. “I shall lead the rangers then.”

“It is a honourable job, never doubt this.”  
  


“Father does not think so,” Faramir said softly, pain in his voice and eyes.

“But **I** do,” Boromir said quietly but strongly, and with a last look at him and then an intense one at Aragorn, he rode off. Over his shoulder, he said, “I must go prepare the men. I shall call for you when it is time.”

Aragorn looked after Boromir as he disappeared into the crowd. “He has changed much,” he said sadly. He was colder, harder, more closed off. Was there any hope that he would be able to let himself love him?

Faramir nodded grimly. “He remained as he always has been to me, but only for me. I think… I think he lost hope.”

  
“You were all he had,” Aragorn said softly, sadly, a hint of self-discrimination in his voice, that he had not been able to be there for Boromir through the years. After a few seconds his gaze turned from where Boromir had disappeared from view to Faramir. “Did he not read my letter?”

Faramir shook his head. “He did not. He has kept it all these years but it remains unopened.”

Aragorn looked in surprise at him. “Why?” The letter had been a poor way to try and keep a support and caring which he could no longer offer with Boromir after he was gone, but it had been something; better than nothing.

“I think… mayhap by it remaining unopened, he tried to pretend you had never left,” Faramir said softly, biting his lower lip, afraid he had said too much.

“But I had,” Aragorn said softly, seeing what he meant.

“You had,” Faramir agreed just as softly. A pretence could not last for long…. An illusion would always shatter and if an illusion was all one had to hold….

“Captain, a moment of your time, please,” a ranger respectfully asked Faramir and Faramir nodded to him with a friendly smile.

“Yes,” with a warm smile at Legolas and an even wider at Aragorn, he said, “We shall meet before the battle when Boromir calls us.”

Faramir left with the ranger, talking to him as they walked away and soon Faramir was back around the rangers, looking at ease there, and the rangers listened respectfully to him and looked ready to defend him to the last man.

“His men love him,” Legolas remarked, his eyes on Faramir and his band of rangers.

“Yes,” Aragorn agreed, pride in his voice over Faramir’s strength and achievement. He had matured wonderfully and had become the man Aragorn had always known and hoped he could be.

“The rest of the army does not seem to share that assessment yet I still saw them look admiringly at Boromir,” Legolas said with slight confusion and great insight, having watched the passing soldiers as they looked at the two brothers.

“I was a part of the rangers before I left Gondor, and the rangers, unlike most of the other units of the army, have a loose chain of command. It is a smaller and tighter group with a stronger bond to their captain. They often live for a long period of time together in the wilderness far from Minas Tirith. The evil whispers from the palace and court about Faramir will not disturb the rangers for they will have seen his true strength.” Aragorn paused for a moment before he went on, needing, wanting Legolas to know what he knew in his heart and mind. “Do not judge Boromir by the cold welcome he gave you. Do not think that Boromir is not worthy of the army’s praise for I know he is, he already was the day I left.”

Legolas nodded understanding; having always known Boromir meant a lot to Aragorn and he did not wish to make him feel like he would have to choose between them. “Shall we go greet the Steward?” 

The thought of doing so made nervous sweat spring forth on his forehead and in his palms, but Aragorn’s voice was still strong when he replied, “We shall.”

They left their horses with a soldier and entered the palace side by side. There was no reason to be frightened; there was nothing to fear here. Still, Aragorn’s heart beat faster in his chest, remembering that the last time he had seen Denethor, he had whipped and humiliated him. It had been a memory that had haunted him for years and it now seemed more alive than ever.

“A man without fear is a fool; a man with the courage to conquer his fear is a King,” Legolas said softly as their footsteps echoed through the hallway, having refused a guide since Aragorn remembered the way quite well. As they walked through familiar corridors, Aragorn mentally reminded himself to visit Ivea in the kitchen to let the kind woman know he was well.

“Gandalf told me this when I was fighting….” Aragorn let his voice die out, not wishing to say the rest but it echoed in his mind anyway, _fighting the fear this place had put into me_. Gandalf had said such a humiliating and painful experience as the whipping he had gotten would naturally give some trauma and when he had conquered it, he would be all the stronger for it. And he had been right. He had fought this once; he had conquered this once. It held no power over him any longer. When he felt the truth of those words, all his fears disappeared and he smiled at Legolas, his eyes warm as he looked at him. “Thank you, my friend.”

“My pleasure,” Legolas said with a nod of his head, his eyes affectionate and understanding.

They reached the door to the throne room and let the guard know how to present them. The guard nodded, saluted and opened the door to the throne room and they stepped inside.

Denethor was seated near the end of the room at a table laden with food. While his sons were preparing for battle, a battle they could die in, the Steward was calmly eating a feast. Given his status and age, it was acceptable that the Steward did not fight in this battle himself, but he could, as a father, show more concern than this, more respect than this. But then, the duties of a father, in Aragorn’s opinion, had always seemed the hardest for Denethor to get right. Aragorn had to form fists at his side, his fingernails tearing so hard into his skin that they drew blood, to keep his temper in check. He had only just seen the man and already he had gotten so under his skin. He had to try and stay calm.

The past nine years had not been kind to Denethor. He looked worn and old, his long hair filled with grey. His eyes seemed harder and colder, his movements, as he tore a piece of chicken meat off the bird, seemed almost violent. More than age had done this, and unlike Boromir, Aragorn did not contribute the change in the Steward to emotional conflict, guilt or stress but something else. Something darker. There was a shadow in the Steward, a sinister presence that seemed to echo an inhuman pain and mad reasoning in the man’s eyes.

“My Lord Steward,” the guard said, kneeling before him. “May I present Aragorn, adopted son of Lord Elrond of Rivendell and Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, son of Thranduil?”

Denethor made a hand movement to indicate he should rise and the guard did so, bowed and then left, closing the door behind him. Denethor had a handful of older men, most likely generals, waiting in the back of the room, having moved to give the newly arrived guests some privacy in which to address the Steward.

Both Aragorn and Legolas made a respectful nod at the Steward; kneeling was not required of royalty, and through Elrond, Aragorn could now claim this, another reason why he was grateful for Elrond taking him in and letting him call himself his son. Kneeling before Denethor would be something he simply did not think he would be able to do again.

“My long missing protégé and an elf. I always thought Boromir’s explanation that you had insulted him and that he, in punishment, had banned you from Gondor and thus made sure you would never again walk these halls, were not quite true,” Denethor said coldly, only mild curiosity and disappointment at having been deceived, clear in his voice. He spoke with more control than Aragorn would have given him credit for. Or maybe just more than he would have preferred as the Steward’s control demanded the same from him.

“Lord Steward, we send greetings from our nations and our fathers and wish to talk about reforming an alliance between our nations and Gondor,” Aragorn said, keeping his voice calm and forcing himself to relax, his hands uncurling. While they were here to see how Gondor and Mordor were faring, an alliance had been an option they had the power and the permission to form.

“No, I do not believe this is the reason you are here,” Denethor said with a frown and both Legolas and Aragorn froze, unsure of what he might do now. Then Denethor waved a hand and shook his head before he added in a lighter tone, “Yet never mind. Never let it be said that Gondor did not do as society’s rules dictate. You can stay at the palace for the mandatory week required I give ambassadors, but,” he added, his tone now darker, and he waved a chicken leg at them warningly, “after that you leave and never come back.”

Denethor could not risk having Aragorn so close… and a cursed Elf as well! They could be spies… out to destroy Gondor…. And Aragorn out to steal his throne and ruin Gondor. No, they had to leave as soon as he could throw them out without risking war with either of the Elven Kingdoms to which they had ties. It was the only way to be safe… to keep Gondor safe!

  
“Thank you, Lord Steward,” Legolas said since he could see Aragorn was too upset to reply.

Denethor didn’t seem to hear him, his eyes on Aragorn, an almost hopeful look in them. “Mayhap with you here, my youngest son will actually try and make an attempt to at least look like a soldier since he always did seem to think so highly of you.”

“He holds his brother in higher regard than me and I have no doubt Faramir is a great warrior,” Aragorn said as calmly as he could, feeling the same old anger and helplessness as he had when he had lived here.

“Your blind faith always was touching. Wrong, annoying, misleading… but kind of touching,” Denethor said with a small patronizing laugh.

“If your lordship will excuse us… it has been a long journey,” Legolas broke in before Aragorn could say something, from his stiff posture and tight lips, likely something angry which would land them in trouble.

“Of course. Such frail a being as an elf would need to rest after every ride, I would assume,” Denethor commented with something between disgust and sympathy, looking at Legolas’ frail looking body. Compared to Aragorn and any Gondorian male, and even most females, Legolas looked as fragile and built as a fine and delicate crystal statue.

“With your leave,” Legolas said evenly, not letting the man’s words get to him. He knew what he had done; that he had accomplished great deeds in his years, and he was at peace with himself. He had no need to prove his worth or manhood to Denethor or anyone else.

Denethor made a dismissive hand movement, seeming disinterested in them now. “You may leave.”

With one last bow they quickly did so.

“So, this is Denethor,” Legolas observed when they were out in the hallway once more, the door safety shut behind them.

“This was why I did not wish you to come along. I am sorry he offended you,” Aragorn said, slowly letting go of the anger and uneasiness he had felt when standing before the Steward.

“I am not offended and you need not apologise for his words; you are not even kin to him.”

“I know.”

“Yet he is a man and therefore you still feel a connection,” Legolas guessed.

Aragorn did not reply, just kept walking, instinctively back towards the room that had been his all those years ago. During his years in Rivendell, he had been raised as an elf, had been treated as an elf and had been expected to know and do as elves did. He had seen the damage mortals could do, through immortal eyes and his soul had begun to connect more strongly to an elven identity than a mortal one. To be so cruelly reminded of the darker side of mortals, a race he was a part of, was painful to him.

“I feel a growing darkness in him,” Legolas warned when they reached the floor where Boromir and Faramir had their rooms, and Aragorn saw with pleasure that though his old room was cleaned and empty, it stood as if waiting for his return.

“Denethor?” Aragorn asked as they both stood in his old room, Aragorn’s mind distracted by memories and the feeling of nostalgia that hit him at standing here again.

“Yes. And if it is in his blood, the same blood which flows in the veins of the brothers you care so deeply for—” Legolas began softly with concern.

“Neither of them would fall to shadow,” Aragorn interrupted sharply. Though he had had the same concerns, he refused to believe this was possible. Yet he also knew Boromir was walking a thin line. No, he would not fall. He would not let him fall. He would not! He could not.

“I pray not,” Legolas replied softly, not as sure as Aragorn, and like Aragorn, his greatest fear was for Boromir.

“This was my bed, take rest here,” Aragorn said after a long silence, not wishing to think more about it as he indicated his old bed, freshly made. He briefly wondered if it had been Faramir or Boromir who had sent a servant to prepare the room.

He knew Legolas did not need the rest but since they had ridden for so long and they were to do battle within a few hours, some sleep could never hurt. “I shall take Faramir’s bed. He will not mind,” Aragorn added. For some reason, the thought of sleeping in Boromir’s bed, without his permission, though he knew he would have said yes, seemed wrong to him. Seemed too… intimate somehow. Too sexual, in a way he could not explain.

“You are not hungry?” Legolas asked, still unsure of how much food and rest mortal bodies demanded, even after so many years together with Aragorn in Rivendell.

“I had some bread before we got here from the pack Elrond gave me. Do not worry, though humans eat more than Elves, we do not eat **that** much,” Aragorn said warmly and with humour in his eyes as Legolas’ concern made him feel more at ease.

Legolas nodded. “I shall see you before the battle then.”

  
”You shall.”

With that, Aragorn went to Faramir’s room, and when he laid himself down to rest, he slept peacefully at once, a warm smile curving his lips as he refused to think of anything else but the fact that Boromir and Faramir were safe and that he was here with them once more. They were together again and he had his bond brother, Legolas, safe and with him as well. The danger of battle disappeared in the face of these facts; they were all safe… all together and Aragorn would do anything to keep it that way.


	17. Visions Of A Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir has visions of the ring

## Chapter 17: Visions Of A Ring

The battle had been fought mainly around Osgiliath, and thanks to Boromir’s clever plan of attack, the number of wounded and casualties were limited. Legolas and Aragorn had attacked with Boromir despite Aragorn asking if the elf would not attack with the rangers instead since he would be using his bow. The elf had said no, wishing to stay close to his bond brother so he would be able to defend him if need be.

Faramir’s leadership and command of the rangers had probably been the turning point of the battle. In his command, Faramir was compassionate and level-headed, but strong and unquestioning, so unlike the way he was around, in particular, his father. These men were his responsibility and if one fell or was wounded, Faramir felt the pain as if it was his own, which was one of the reasons why his men loved him so much.

After the battle, Boromir’s first concern had been to find his brother. As soon as he had seen him alive and well, Boromir had shone as if seeing the sun for the first time in months and given him a warm embrace. When they had separated, Boromir had seen Legolas and Aragorn just behind Faramir and had smiled at them and clasped both of their hands, his eyes warm when on Aragorn, and he had thanked Legolas for his help in battle, thanking Aragorn as well with less formal words.

However, Aragorn had found himself longing to touch Boromir, embrace him and hold him close just to assure himself he was real and unharmed. Yet he knew he could not, so he had simply smiled back. Faramir however, did not have such restraint and had given Aragorn a warm and heartfelt embrace when he had seen he was well. His eyes still shone with admiration and fascination when he looked at Legolas and he had given the elf a formal but warm handshake in happiness of seeing him well.

When the smoke had cleared, Boromir had given an inspiring speech to the troops, waving Gondor’s flag high on the broken wall of the Osgiliath. Denethor had arrived on the site of battle, but despite Faramir’s valiant contribution to the fight, Denethor still did not have even one kind word to his youngest. Aragorn had been focused on helping with the wounded, Legolas assisting him, but Denethor’s arrival had been obvious to all.

His scream of joy at seeing Boromir could have woken the dead. Aragorn had watched as Faramir had seen them embrace, remaining in the background, apparently used to being ignored. Boromir made a half-hearted attempt to give Faramir credit for some of the battle’s success when he spoke with his father but was apparently used to it being useless. Finally, after a few biting remarks from Denethor, which obviously hurt Faramir as much as ever, Boromir exploded in that quiet way of his, asking his father to refrain before he left to speak to one of his officers. Faramir had quickly left and returned to his rangers and Denethor had returned to the citadel, ignoring the looks Aragorn, Legolas and every other soldier nearby had been giving the public family dispute.

Then there had been time for nothing else as the screams of the dying and the horrid sight of the dead that lay all around them demanded their attention. Faramir had gone to see to his rangers while Boromir had begun to organize the army for defence of Osgiliath and to distribute the soldiers after the battle.

Faramir had lost a handful of rangers and a few were wounded. He had brought one of the wounded to Aragorn for healing but the ranger had been too far gone to save, and it had broken Aragorn’s heart to see the agony on Faramir’s face as he accepted this. Faramir had simply sat down beside the dying ranger, holding his hand and stroking his hair with a gentle touch as he spoke calmly and softly until the ranger drew his last breath. Yes, Aragorn had seen well why the rangers cared so much for the strong yet emotional leader. His concern for his men was evident in everything he did.

It had taken almost two days before all the wounded had been returned to the Healing Houses in Minas Tirith, all the dead buried, all the bodies of the dead Orcs burned, the defence of Osgiliath set up and the army divided into new positions once more.

Boromir, Faramir, Legolas and Aragorn had not slept for those two days and had gone directly to bed as soon as they had reached the citadel where Legolas had been given a room next to Aragorn’s.

A scream awoke Aragorn from his sleep and faster than human feet could carry him, Legolas was in his chambers and stood by his bedside, looking worriedly down at him. Despite being dressed in only tights, and his long blond hair unbraided and loose, he still managed to look concerned and dignified at the same time.

“Estel. Are you well?” he asked, looking alarmed, his vision able to penetrate the darkness into which the night cast Aragorn’s room.

Aragorn nodded as he sat up in bed, running a hand over his eyes and his loose shoulder length hair to fully awaken. The fright the scream had given him lessened in the face of Legolas’ calm, and at hearing the loved Elven nickname which brought back warm memories of Rivendell. The name, meaning hope, had been given to him by Elrond, as a symbol of all the dreams he saw in his adopted son, the human elf. “Yes. It was not I.”

  
Aragorn had barely finished his sentence when another scream echoed through the room.

“There are two voices,” Legolas observed at the same time Aragorn did.

“Boromir and Faramir!” Aragorn realized with dread and was out of bed as fast as it was possible for a human to arise. With Legolas on his heels, he hurried to Faramir’s chambers, uncaring that he was dressed only in the long white nightshirt and underwear Boromir had lent him. Despite the passing of years and the skills in battle Faramir had displayed earlier, Aragorn’s instinct was still to come to his aid first, sure Boromir could take care of himself, and in any case, would want him to go to Faramir. When he reached Faramir’s chambers, he saw he had not been fast enough. Boromir, dressed only in tight pants made for sleeping, already stood at Faramir’s bedside.

Boromir’s muscular shape made Aragorn feel like his blood was moving like fire in his veins until he was close enough to see his body more closely. While Aragorn’s back bore the evidence of his whipping as small fine white scars decorating his skin, Boromir’s body bore several scars from battle and from the dangerous and hard practice he had received since childhood. It didn’t escape Aragorn’s notice that both his wrists bore evidence of faint scars, as did his lower arms. They were placed just so that the leather armbands with the White Tree he normally wore would cover them. Sympathy and compassion, as well as intense anger at the Steward, was like cold water in Aragorn’s face. He had to force himself not to stare at the scars or otherwise give his compassionate concern away, not wanting Boromir to feel self-conscious. He had done what he had to do in order to survive but Aragorn swore right then and there he would make sure Boromir never had to feel such pain ever again. Somehow, he would see him safe. Somehow.

“Little One, are you well?” Boromir asked, concerned as he sat at Faramir’s bedside, his voice soft but worried.

Faramir sat up in bed, trying to shake the nightmare off, his fringe plastered to his forehead, and he ran a shaking hand through his damp hair, trying to regain his composure.

“I am.”

Everyone in the room visibly relaxed.

“What happened?” Aragorn asked worriedly.

Faramir cast his brother a meaningful and concerned look before he said, “It was the dream again.”

“What dream?” Aragorn asked with a frown, not liking Faramir’s serious and troubled expression.

Boromir shook his head but was unable to hold Faramir’s gaze. “It means nothing, little brother.”

“You know it does. You know I have this gift… a gift I share with you,” he insisted.

Boromir seemed hesitant and made an evading hand movement. “Yet this dream… it cannot be real.”

“I wish it was not, yet my dreams have never been wrong before, and now you share this dream as well; it cannot become more powerful than this,” Faramir said softly, sadly.

“What gift do you possess?” Aragorn asked in confusion, feeling the pain of the missing years heavily in his lack of knowledge.

“When Faramir turned twelve, we discovered we have the power to share dreams, premonitions, and that we sometimes could sense if the other were wounded or in distress, if the physical distance between us was not too great,” Boromir told him.

“The more serious the forewarning, the more painful, and frequently the dream will occur,” Faramir continued the explanation.

“And if I understand it correctly, you share this dream with Boromir?” Aragorn asked while Legolas remained standing behind him, watching the exchange with a thoughtful expression.

“Yes,” Faramir nodded. “I can receive visions on my own but so far they have all, one way or another, been connected to Boromir.”

“The bond of brothers,” Legolas said softly, thinking of Elrond’s twin sons who shared a similar strong bond of brotherhood. All eyes fell on him in question and he elaborated, “Brothers whose souls are connected become as if one in spirit. This means their destinies, their very beings, intertwine. When this happens, two lives become one. The brother most prone to accept the value of dreams will be able to see a possible future for his brother and himself, drawing power from his kin. If this vision is very important, it will be shared by both.”

  
“Seems reasonable,” Faramir agreed after having considered the Elf’s words for a few seconds.

“Let us say this is so,” Boromir said with a frown, not sure he believed Legolas but unable to explain it any other way despite being wary of anything magical, “yet this dream must still be just that; a dream. Not a premonition.”

  
“What is the dream about? What about it frightens you so?” Legolas asked softly.

Boromir gave him a sharp look but then seemed to realize the elf meant no disrespect and backed off, his gaze and posture softening.

“In my dream… I burn,” Faramir said softly, lowering his eyes to look at his hands lying on top of the covers. The dream felt so real, as if he could feel the flames, their heat… the agony and the promising darkness of death.

“What do you mean?” Aragorn asked, shocked, fighting the urge to embrace Faramir and swear he would keep him safe. _He is no longer a child_ , Aragorn sternly reminded himself. That he recalled him as such, still thought of him as such, did not have anything to do with how things really were. Whether he liked it or not, Faramir had grown up without him, had been fine without him. He had not needed him to survive and grow and that knowledge gave him pain and pride in equal measure.

“My father makes a funeral pyre and burns me alive,” Faramir said softly, his voice shaking slightly as well as his hands. He saw the pain and horror in the others’ eyes and added just as quietly, “It is not the thought of dying which frightens me but the knowledge I mean so little to my father that my death will be by his hand.” Boromir laid a hand over Faramir’s on the bed, tightening his grip so he stopped his shaking.

“He would never do this and if it came to it… I would never let it happen,” Boromir vowed seriously, their eyes meeting when Faramir raised his head and looked at him.

“You will not be there to stop him, brother,” Faramir said softly, sadly, their eyes holding each other captive in an intense gaze, “you know this.” The agony the mere thought of losing Boromir brought him was clear in Faramir’s voice and whole posture.

  
Boromir shook his head stubbornly, yet agony was flashing in both brothers’ eyes, as they each feared for the other’s life. “That is but a nightmare; a fear. Nothing more.”

The silence was deafening and could cut glass until Aragorn shattered it. “What do you see?” he asked softly, almost afraid to ask. He thought little of Denethor as a father but he had to agree with Boromir; this seemed too extreme, too cruel, even for Denethor.

“A darkness, a shadow. It grows. There is a ripple…. There is a golden ring. I see my brother fight… I see him fall,” Faramir said heartbrokenly.

“Can you see where?” Aragorn asked with more desperation than the situation called for but dread crept over him at the mere thought of losing Boromir. He couldn’t lose him now… not when he had just found him again. Not when he still hadn’t figured what place he could hold in his heart. He recalled Gandalf’s words about educating a King and his Steward. He had almost forgotten; wishing to forget, wanting it to be false. Yet this was too much of a coincidence for his taste.

Faramir nodded grimly. “Far from here. On a plain neither he nor I have ever walked before.”

“Yet if Boromir is kept safe, so are you as Boromir’s demise precedes your own?” Legolas asked with worry yet hope and Faramir nodded.

“That is how I see it, yes.”

“You said yourself when we spoke of this earlier that a ring of gold is the key. There are no golden rings here so there is no reason for concern,” Boromir said in a voice meant to calm them all as well as himself. He would not fail; he could never fail and thus Faramir would be kept safe. That was all that mattered. 

“Mayhap the ring of gold is a wedding band,” Legolas suggested. “Though Elves need no such physical reminder to recall a lover, I hear some mortals do.”

“A golden band is given to the girl and was, in the old days, a symbol of ownership so other men knew the girl was already owned,” Boromir explained. “I have no fiancée and neither does Faramir so this is not a wedding band.”

“The ring could be any ring and belong to anyone coming into contact with you, any of you,” Aragorn suggested, looking at each brother with concern. He had to find a way to make sure the dream did not come to pass; he would not lose any of them. Not now, not ever! After a moment of concentration, he asked, “Does the Steward have a ring he might hand you?”

  
“There is a ring given when a new Steward takes the rule yet this ring is not golden,” Boromir told him.

“We should be careful all the same,” Faramir said.

“Careful as in protect your father?” Aragorn asked with a raised brow. This did not sit well with him. Not that he was prone to slay the man but he was not protecting the man who had beaten him within an inch of his life either. A man who had brought great pain to both Faramir and Boromir. He owed allegiance to Rivendell now and was no longer honour bound to protect Gondor’s Steward.

“If the ring can not pass to my brother without his life being at risk then this is what we must do, yes,” Faramir said determinedly, nodding.

“This is folly,” Boromir said as he rose from Faramir’s bed and shook his head. “We are all guessing in east and west.”

  
“One thing is certain,” Aragorn began softly, seriously, trying hard to hide his worry and his desire to lock Boromir up somewhere in the palace to be certain he would not be harmed. “If Boromir’s fall is on a land he has not yet walked, he may never go anywhere he has not been at this point.”

“I have been to most parts of Gondor. As the threat from Mordor grows, there is little reason for me to go anywhere I have not yet been,” Boromir protested, fighting to kill the small voice that insisted that if Faramir had seen this threat as well it was real. So far the dreams they had shared had not spoken falsely.

  
“So you agree to stay?” Faramir pleaded, his voice and eyes hopeful. He could not, would not, wish to even consider facing a world without his brother’s love and protection. “Please, brother. I cannot lose you.”

Boromir smiled fondly down at him, his eyes warm as he tousled Faramir’s hair. “Very well. I shall not go where I have not been.”

“Thank you,” Faramir said seriously, heartfelt and felt like a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders. On impulse, still caught up in the terrible nightmare of seeing his brother’s death as well as his own, he reached out his arms and Boromir moved with easy grace to sit by his bedside and let himself be hugged, hugging Faramir back, his embrace warm and soft.

As Boromir drew back and rose from Faramir’s bedside, he saw everyone’s worried gaze on him, almost as if they were afraid he would fall dead to the floor right this minute, and he tried a calming smile. “I am not made of glass.” He gave a dismissive gesture and said with more strength in his voice, “Everyone, go back to bed. We will debate this more tomorrow.”

Aragorn nodded, and after Boromir had cast one last calming smile at his brother, they all left Faramir’s chambers. As Boromir was to go to his own chambers, Aragorn put a hand on his arm, stopping him. Boromir looked from Aragorn’s hand on his arm to his eyes, a puzzled look on his face. Aragorn released his hold on him as he spoke softly, his eyes intense and almost pleading as he tried to find words that would convey just a fraction of what he was feeling. “More than your brother will mourn you should you perish. Do not let pride lead you down a path from which no one, not your brother, nor I, can save you.”

Boromir looked thoughtful yet seemed moved and reassured by Aragorn’s words. Now Aragorn spoke as he recalled him, and like this, he felt he could deny him nothing. And so he nodded, giving Aragorn’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “Though one rarely knows the path being walked until it is too late, I shall not fail Gondor, Faramir or you,” Boromir promised solemnly.

Aragorn tried for a smile, not feeling as reassured as he had hoped, and looked after Boromir as he walked into his room. On the way back to his own chambers, he stuck his head into Faramir’s room and wished him a good night. When he was back in his room, he sat on his bed and looked up at Legolas, who had followed him, with a tired and worried look.

“His strength could be his undoing,” Legolas said softly as he looked down at Aragorn, echoing Aragorn’s thoughts. Boromir’s belief that he was never allowed to break, fail or ask for help could in the end push him too far. His need to excel to the point of harming himself if he felt he had not done well enough, betrayed this clearer than anything else.

“I know.” Despair and pain was in Aragorn’s voice and face as he said this and he ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

There was a silence before Legolas said softly, his eyes knowing, “You really care for him, do you not?”

“I love him,” Aragorn said, knowing this was true, having no trouble admitting what he had known for so long.

“Do you know yet what kind of love?”

Aragorn shook his head. Though he was beginning to realise he was feeling also a physical attraction towards Boromir, really carrying such notions to an end would have severe consequences not only for himself and his own future but also for Boromir and their relationship… in particular, if he would be offended by the mere thought. “No. But I shall find out.”

Legolas nodded at this, and for a moment they shared a comfortable and calming silence.

“I shall leave you to the night,” Legolas said and walked to the door.

Aragorn smiled at him and rose, happy to have a friend as loyal and insightful as Legolas. “Thank you for standing by me through everything I do.”

  
“I always will, Estel. I always will,” Legolas vowed, giving him a fond smile before he was gone.

“I am then a blessed man,” Aragorn said softly, heartfelt, knowing Legolas’s Elven ears would hear him through the walls.

Despite his worry, exhaustion made Aragorn fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. The mention of a ring of gold had stirred something in his memory but he was too tired to hold onto the thought and soon worry and any other emotions or thoughts left him as he slept, unknowing that his two human friends had fallen into similar exhausted sleeps.

Legolas did not find sleep as quickly. He was able to go longer without sleep and the thought of a ring had him frowning in concern. No, it could not be. The thought he was having had to be wrong. What he was thinking was impossible; it could not be what Faramir had meant when he had spoken about a ring. That evil, that threat, was in the past…. it had to be. Deciding it was too terrible to even consider, Legolas let the world dissolve and slept, reassured by the steady heartbeat of his bond brother sleeping next door.


	18. Love As A Weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denethor shows how love can be a weapon

## Chapter 18: Love As A Weapon

The following day passed quickly with Faramir and Boromir having many activities and duties to attend to after the battle. Aragorn and Legolas helped where they could but Aragorn felt the weight of his absence from Minas Tirith when most of the time he was left to do a guest’s duties where earlier he had been a part of the family. Now he spent most of his time walking in the garden or sitting in the library. Aragorn spent the free time showing Legolas where he had spent many years as a young boy and voicing his worry and concern about the brothers’ dream. They came no closer to a solution but it eased Aragorn’s mind to talk of it. He also visited Ivea in the kitchen who cried in joy of seeing him well and promptly pampered him and Legolas with all of Aragorn’s favourite childhood dishes.

Aragorn was happy that he didn’t have to face Denethor until it was time for supper. This was the first meal they would share, as the battle hadn’t left time for social etiquette till now. However, his years away had made him forget how emotionally draining dinners at the citadel with Denethor had always been. The ease, grace, elegance and warmth of the meals he had shared with his Elven family, Gandalf and various Elven visitors was lost here. The last meal he had taken in the large dining hall with Denethor had ended catastrophically but Aragorn was relieved and proud to say his nervousness at being there again had faded quickly in the face of the strength his added years and Legolas’ calm presence brought him.

At dinner he noticed how everything in his absence seemed to have grown darker. The weather, the palace, Denethor, Boromir… even Faramir had changed. Though not darker, he seemed more subdued. This evening Denethor had not seemed upset but his wit was as sharp as ever, finding any excuse to say a disapproving remark to his youngest and a pleased but demanding one to his oldest. Faramir no longer tried, as he once had, to reach his father. He would defend his decisions and himself if prompted to do so but always with an air that said he expected defeat. Though Boromir continued his defence of his brother, it was more restrained when in front of their father as if he knew his defence would either be useless or make things worse. Still, he could not remain quiet and Aragorn had an even harder time with it. His time in Rivendell had enhanced his sense of justice as well as his self-confidence. Other than common courtesy, Denethor had no power over him anymore; he was now not even a citizen of Gondor but belonged to Rivendell.

There was a depressing mood around everything here, that for a moment, made Aragorn wish it was Rivendell he was destined to lead, for as it was now Gondor needed a miracle to return to a city of light instead of the city it was now; halfway waiting to be buried in a mass grave, and at its darkest hours, that future seemed a kindness.

“This is a beautiful room; it truly shows Gondor’s grandeur and long history,” Legolas said as they were halfway through the meal. Very few words had been spoken as if no one wanted to open up old wounds. With a nod he indicated the tall ceiling, the statues by the walls, the elegance of the decoration in everything from the detailed woodwork on table and chairs to the decorated candleholders on the walls.

“It is from the time of Kings. Additions to the palace made by the line of Stewards as well as paintings and statues of the Stewards are in the east wing,” Boromir replied, feeling the kind remark about the culture he loved so dearly deserved an equally kind reply and Denethor didn’t seem to be supplying any but simply nodded at Legolas’ words as if such praise was to be expected.

The room was indeed grand as it had always been but its formality did not help to ease the tense atmosphere. Boromir sat at his father’s right side, his brother beside him. Protocol dictated the guests to be seated on the opposite side and Legolas had seen the dark look that had passed between Denethor and Aragorn and had wordlessly seated himself next to the Steward, Aragorn beside him. Aragorn had given him a grateful smile but the distance had not stopped the two men from sparring with words in the few sentences they had said to each other. Legolas, having no feelings involved in this, had tried all evening to keep the conversation light and polite. 

“I hear you lost seven rangers and twenty were wounded. That is an unacceptably high number for such a small battle,” Denethor reproved, his eyes on Faramir, turning the conversation back to scorn or praise on the battle, depending on which son he was addressing.

Faramir nodded, lowering his head. “Yes, father.” The guilt and pain he had felt over the loss of his men was clear in his voice, and at his father’s words, it was obvious that those emotions returned full force.

Boromir tensed and Aragorn did likewise as Denethor went on. “I thought you could at least command the rangers but mayhap I overestimated your abilities… again.”

Faramir winced as if hit. None of the rangers should have died but they had. Faramir was tormenting himself with this fact and was beginning to wonder if not his father was right in his statement. If Boromir or anyone else could have prevented the loss of those men he would gladly relinquish command this very moment to prevent such failure from happening again. “I apologize, Father.”

“Faramir followed my orders. If those orders led his men into distress, the fault is mine,” Boromir said evenly, taking the guilt and blame upon himself the way he always had. The loss of those men was his burden to bear. His disgust with his failure at bringing everyone safely back was hidden under the leather armband covering his right wrist, his way of punishing himself for mistakes and shortcomings he found unforgivable.

Aragorn cast Boromir a concerned look. He knew Boromir would consider the loss a personal failure and would let it torment him. For most Gondorians, pain and punishment was an integral part of love, duty, faith and honour, and in this household it was as true as could be. It had never been so for him and he wished he could do something to assure Boromir it wasn’t his fault and that he didn’t and never had deserved punishment for what was out of his control.

Denethor gave Boromir a displeased look before he said, “Are you not too old to cover his mistakes like this? How is he to ever become a man when you keep pampering him like a child?”

Aragorn saw the look of doubt in Boromir’s eyes and he knew he, now as always, was afraid his love and protection of Faramir did just that while Faramir blushed in embarrassment.

“Cruelty does not make one a man, the absence of it does,” Aragorn said softly, raising his eyes from his plate to look Denethor in the eyes, his stare strong and unyielding. His years in Rivendell had made him stronger than he had ever been, there was no doubt, yet also no room for areas of grey when it came to matters close to his heart. Another reason why his strong emotions towards Boromir tormented him so. He had yet to reach a decision as to what conclusion was possible.

Denethor smiled darkly as if finding his statement very amusing. “Is that so?” He turned to look at Faramir, almost pleading desperation and hope in his gaze. “In that case, prove to me you are neither weak nor a coward. Prove to me here and now that Strider’s defence of you is true.”

Legolas was set to protest the use of the, to him, unusual name for Aragorn but Aragorn stopped him with a hand on his arm to indicate that in this hour he did not care for himself; his worry lay with Faramir. “What?!” he yelled in disbelief and shock. He could not be serious! As a son, as a Gondorian, Faramir would have to obey the command or look a coward or a traitor for disobeying the Steward’s demand. The troubling part was in order for him to obey, he would most likely have to do something that would cause him pain, greater pain than his father’s lack of faith in him already did.

“Father, you cannot mean this,” Boromir protested, looking in shock at his father, his face white. He could not disgrace his brother like this, as if he needed to prove his loyalty to his father and his country! Boromir had to fight the instinct that told him to take Faramir by the arm and drag him out of the room and far away, though he knew such action would do him no favours. Faramir would not take kindly to being forced into the role of a coward, not even by a brother’s love.

Denethor’s eyes remained on Faramir who looked devastated by the command and the clear lack of trust and faith in him it showed. However, he did not look shocked. They had both known that his father would demand proof of his alliance, of his love, of his worth, sooner or later. It was the fact that his own father doubted him that had him fighting tears more than the prospect of how to obey the order he had been given. His eyes and mind searched the room for a way, any way, to here and now prove his worth. His gaze fell on one of the fire pits. Several basins stood raised to stand at the height of a man’s stomach by four metal legs. The basins themselves were also made of metal and were as large as a man’s embrace, filled with hot coal to keep the dining room warm. In the taverns it was a common test of courage for a young man to put his hand into a flame. Determined, his mind made up, Faramir stood up slowly, his gaze remaining on Denethor as he spoke softly, his eyes sad but holding a strong and determined look that said he would not fail or give up. “To you that is all I have ever been- an embarrassment to you and the Stewards before you. I pray to the Valar that one day… you will think kinder of me.”

“I will not have either cowards or weaklings in my family; you must understand that everything I have done, I have done for your own good,” Denethor said evenly, his eyes hopefully following Faramir’s movements as he left his seat at the table.

“Faramir!” Boromir protested, his eyes anguished as his hand caught hold of Faramir’s arm, stopping him, as he was to move away from the table and towards the fire pit, knowing exactly what his little brother was thinking of. Despite what his mind told him, that he had to let Faramir do this on his own, his heart would not let him sit still while Faramir hurt in any way.

Faramir looked down at him and smiled warmly. “It is all right, brother,” he said softly and gently released Boromir’s grip on his arm before he resumed his walk, all eyes on his retreating back.

“Faramir, don’t! Your pain will mean nothing to him,” Aragorn yelled after him as he rose and quickly walked around the table, intent on stopping him.

As he was to pass Denethor’s chair, the Steward was out of his chair so fast that Aragorn barely registered it. He gripped Aragorn’s arm and backhanded him with such force that Aragorn was forced a step backwards.

“Do not stop my son now that I have such hopes that he will do right by me,” Denethor sneered, a hint of pride at his youngest in his voice, his actions seeming to say that in his mind he was defending his youngest son.

“Hey!” Boromir protested, having risen from his chair, not sure what to do but unable to sit still while Aragorn was being manhandled. He still had terrible nightmares about Aragorn’s whipping and he knew he could not and would not let that happen a second time, no matter what the consequences might be.

“Do not touch my bond brother again,” Legolas warned softly but deadly, having raised as well and was now standing beside Aragorn though not touching him, having learnt that humans had a complex relationship with pride and accepting help.

Aragorn massaged his injured cheek as he turned back to look at Denethor and took the step forward the unexpected blow had forced him to retreat more in surprise than pain. “I see years have only increased your madness,” he said calmly, darkly. There was no longer any doubt in Aragorn’s mind that the rising darkness had twisted the Steward’s mind beyond recognition.

Denethor’s face darkened in anger and his hand shot out, intent to strike him across the face again but Aragorn was faster and gripped his wrist hard, stopping the hand mid-air. “I will let you get away with that once on account on the generosity you showed me by taking me in all those years ago.” He released Denethor, who simply stared angrily at him. “Do not raise your hand at me again for I shall not let it pass a second time,” he added calmly but seriously, no hint of hesitation in his actions, words or gaze.

“How dare…” Denethor began furiously when a soft whimper followed by Boromir’s loud gasp interrupted them.

“Brother!” Boromir yelled and was at Faramir’s side at once; cursing himself for his temporally distraction which had meant he had forgotten his little brother.

Everyone turned to see Faramir standing with his right hand over the glowing coal of the nearest fire pit, his face a study of suppressed pain. His brow was sweaty, his face a grimace, his eyes watery and he was biting his lower lip till it bled to keep from screaming.

“Pull back your hand!” Boromir demanded sharply as he reached Faramir, his voice betraying the turmoil of pain and helplessness he was feeling inside. He tried to pull Faramir’s hand away but Faramir shook his head, sweat running down his forehead, pain in every line of his face.

“I… I… cannot,” he gasped, agony clear in his hoarse voice.

Boromir turned furious eyes on his father, his heart beating wildly in his chest in fear. In that moment, there was no doubt, no choice to make. His brother was in pain and he would do anything to ease it. “He is held captive by his love and honour-bound pledge to fulfil your command. Release him!”

Denethor’s eyes darkened. “You dare to command me?!” he asked angrily, surprise and shock in his voice.

Without a second thought, his entire being focused on Faramir and the agonized small sounds he was making, Boromir dropped to his knees behind his brother, his eyes on his father. “I **beg** you to release him,” he asked quietly. There was no shame in his actions or his voice, no embarrassment. 

Aragorn was shocked to see Boromir on his knees but Faramir’s anguished breath made him realize why he was doing this. They could force Faramir away but he wanted to do this; wanted to prove himself to his father and would not forgive them if they stole this moment from him with their concern.

“Please, Steward. Release him,” Aragorn asked of Denethor, his eyes focused on him, his voice soft and subdued while Legolas looked from Faramir to Boromir to Aragorn and finally at Denethor, seeming unsure if speaking or staying silent was the best cause of action to aid the kind hearted mortal and his bond brother. Recalling Denethor’s ill veiled contempt towards him, he thought it best to hold his tongue…for now at least.

Boromir cast Aragorn a grateful look before his gaze returned to Denethor, remaining on his knees, fighting back his urge to simply force Faramir away from the fire.

Denethor was overwhelmed by the reaction and attention he had suddenly accumulated; most of all that his oldest son for the second time chose to beg on behalf of his brother. Yet this time Boromir did so without shame and without apologies; there was strong and clear conviction in Boromir’s eyes that what he was doing was right, was honourable. Denethor felt his rage turn to deep sorrow in the face of what he considered Boromir’s abandonment and betrayal of him. He waved an irritated hand. “Fine. He is released.” It was not without disappointment and pain that he said the words; he had had such hopes Faramir would finally do right by him.

Faramir drew his hand back at once, drawing a deep breath of relief as the agony eased some, though his hand was now starting to throb with growing anguish every time his blood flowed into it. Boromir rose and looked Faramir’s hand over, holding it gently between both of his. It was red and pained but the skin had not broken. It would be painful for days but would leave no permanent scars. Boromir drew a deep and reassured breath.

“He will be all right in a few days,” Boromir said over his shoulder to Aragorn who nodded, reassured by his words.

“Thank the Valar,” Aragorn muttered and ran a hand through his hair in relief.

While Faramir cradled his injured hand, Boromir guided his brother out of the room, supporting him with an arm around his waist. Everyone’s eyes were on them, the room quiet except for Faramir’s pained breathing and the echo of their steps. Before they reached the door, Boromir turned to look at his father. “With your leave, Sire?”

There was a coldness in Boromir’s stare which surprised Aragorn as much as Denethor and the Steward simply nodded, as if too shocked and surprised by his oldest distanced and closed look to do anything else. “Go.”

“With your leave, we shall retire as well,” Legolas said softly as the door closed behind the brothers, leaving the room’s occupants in a state of surreal shock.

Denethor nodded and suddenly looked very lost and sad as if he had lost the last thing that had kept him hanging on to the thin thread of hope he had seen dimming more and more each day.

Aragorn and Legolas made a quick exit, relieved to be away from Denethor, and caught up with Faramir and Boromir in the hallway, heading towards their rooms.

“We need herbs, bandages, water… and some alcohol,” Boromir said as he supported an exhausted and only half conscious Faramir, his pain having left him dazed and light-headed.

“I shall get it,” Legolas said and separated from the others to go towards the kitchen Aragorn had showed him earlier when they had visited Ivea.

“He went too far this time,” Boromir said grimly, as he supported Faramir up the stairs, Aragorn coming up so he could support Faramir from the other side. Faramir now had an arm around each man’s shoulder but still fought to walk as upright as he could but his face was sweaty and his eyes glassy. He needed water and he needed rest. It was more shock than pain that had left him drained, so hopefully the next day he would feel better. Aragorn could certainly understand. He himself was still shocked to his core and he had the darkest outlook on Denethor of any of them, and still this had shocked him. He could only imagine what it must have done to Boromir who had seen a softer, gentler side to him and Faramir who had always fought so hard to see the best in everyone.

“I would not say this earlier but Legolas told me after he had first seen the Steward, he had sensed a shadow, a darkness growing within him,” Aragorn said softly in reply to Boromir’s words as they reached Faramir’s room and got him to lie down on his back on his bed. Aragorn drew back so Boromir could carefully get Faramir’s shirt off him before he put the blanket over his body, letting both his arms lie on top of the blanket. Then Boromir sat by Faramir’s bedside, his eyes filled with affection, sympathy and pain as he looked down at his brother who looked many years younger with his pain flushed face.

“I… I did… I did well, did I not, brother?” Faramir asked weakly, hoarsely, his eyes losing their focus as pain and exhaustion fought for dominance.

Boromir swallowed past the lump in his throat and had to fight to be able to speak. “Yes. You did well,” he said softly, gently stroking Faramir’s hair, fighting back the tears he could never spill. He had heard his father’s voice too often; tears were a weakness he could never allow himself.

“Here.” Suddenly Legolas was there and handed Boromir the whiskey he had gotten from the kitchen, having removed the cork from the half empty bottle before handing it over.

“Drink a little of this. You will feel better,” Boromir promised as he gently lifted Faramir’s head with one hand and put the bottle to his lips with the other. Faramir drank as much as he could, and when Boromir felt him draw back, he removed the bottle from his lips and gently laid his head back on the pillow once more. The task done, he handed the bottle back to Legolas who put it on Faramir’s nearby writing desk where he had also put the other supplies he had fetched. 

The liquor quickly warmed Faramir, dulled the pain and encouraged sleep. “I… I made… father… proud, did… did I not? I… did… not … fail. I am not a coward,” Faramir mumbled, his eyes shutting, willingly slipping away to escape the agonizing throbbing in his injured hand.

“Yes, you did ,” Boromir said softly and put a hand to his brother’s forehead to check for a fever just as Faramir’s eyes closed, but he wasn’t sure if he judged his health correctly.

Boromir cast a worried look at Aragorn when he felt Faramir slip away from him and stood up, moving away from the bed. “You know more of the art of healing than I.”

Aragorn was moved by his gesture; happy to know he still held Boromir’s trust despite the years that had passed between them. He seated himself at Faramir’s bedside where Boromir had just been sitting and looked at Faramir’s sleeping form, listening to his breathing and put a hand on his chest under the covers to feel his heart beat. Finally he laid a hand on his forehead to check for fever. “He is exhausted. It is the shock and pain. He is in no danger,” he said, relieved, looking over his shoulder at Boromir while he spoke.

“Good.” Boromir nodded in relief, running a hand through his hair.  
  


“Give me the bottle and I shall cleanse his hand and bandage it,” Aragorn requested and Boromir wordlessly handed it to him.

Legolas and Boromir watched him work, handing him the things he needed when he requested them, other than that the room was quiet yet tense, as if everyone were expecting something bad to happen.

“He went too far,” Boromir repeated his earlier words, his voice soft and pained as he looked at Faramir’s damaged hand. “I never thought he would go this far… to ask his own son to prove himself… use Faramir’s loyalty and love like that.”

There was no reason to name names, they all knew who he meant. “You feared it, mayhap even knew it…. You just did not wish to see it,” Aragorn said softly, his eyes and attention on his task as he worked on Faramir’s bandage.

“There is nothing harder than to admit you were reaching for the unreachable…. That there is no way to win,” Legolas said just as softly as he laid a calming hand on Boromir’s shoulder, praying the mortal would not take offence. Despite his many years Legolas was still not able to tell when it was all right to offer help and support and when a mortal’s pride would demand he refuse it.

Boromir nodded with agonized thoughtfulness, forgetting his resentment of Legolas; in the face of what had just happened, it seemed unimportant. Legolas removed his hand again as Boromir spoke once more.

“He was not always like this….” Boromir’s voice was soft, almost nostalgic as he remembered happier times, not sure who he was defending with the statement, his father or himself.

  
“If it helps, I do not believe your father is himself. As the years have passed, he has fallen deeper into shadow and I fear madness has finally taken over,” Aragorn said sympathetically and turned to look at Boromir and Legolas after he had finished bandaging Faramir’s hand and had laid it gently on top of the covers.

“It seems clear now that the danger to your brother is real,” Legolas said softly. “If tonight is any indication… it might not be unthinkable that your father, when pushed far enough, would do as Faramir dreamt,” Legolas went on, his voice grim and worried, saying what they had all been thinking but been too afraid to voice.

“I can protect him,” Boromir insisted strongly, almost desperately. He could not lose Faramir; he had already lost Aragorn. He was here now, true, but he had Legolas and Rivendell and he would soon be gone again, leaving him to face the world alone. If he lost Faramir, he would have nothing left. The thought was unthinkable; the loss too deep to put into words. Just having Aragorn so close yet so far was tearing him up inside. At times he was like the brother he had been; other times, Boromir truly felt the distance of years. Most of all though, he hated that Aragorn’s mere presence brought him hope when he feared there was none.

“Also from himself?” Legolas asked kindly. “For it is his love, his eagerness to gain just one word of approval from your father which might prove to be your greatest challenge,” Legolas warned.

“I **can** protect him!” Boromir insisted hotly, his green eyes ablaze as his gaze went from Legolas to Aragorn and back again, but even he could hear the desperation in the words instead of the certainty he had wanted.

“You might be able to for some time but your father is growing more and more irrational. So far he has found excuses for the reason for your defence of Faramir. What happens the day he decides your defence is a betrayal of him? You seem to be the centre of his world… such a betrayal, real or imagined, could foster a rage in him of which the outcome can only be disastrous,” Aragorn cautioned, frowning in concern as he stood and Boromir took his place at Faramir’s bedside, looking down at Faramir’s sleeping form with a soft smile but pain in his eyes.

Boromir knew Aragorn was right; Faramir would need to go somewhere safe. “I cannot let him go alone, yet I cannot leave Gondor defenceless either,” Boromir said, agonized to be forced to choose between the brother he loved and the country he served.

“You will have little choice in the matter,” Legolas said evenly and everyone’s eyes fell on him as he elaborated, “While I was getting the supplies, I saw a rider reach the citadel and Denethor went to greet him. My hearing is superior to that of mortals and I could hear the rider whisper to Denethor. He told him that the One Ring has been found and is being brought to Rivendell by Gandalf and some Hobbits, while Elrond has sent his son, Elladan, to Saruman to ask for assistance.”

“The One Ring….” Boromir muttered, stunned, as he looked at the Elf. He had thought the Ring a legend, a myth of old. Could it be real? Could the Ring be here? Now, in their most desperate hour of need? Was this a sign? The aid, the help, they so desperately needed to defeat the enemies of Gondor?

“A golden ring that can decide the fate of nations and Kings. That must be the ring from Faramir’s vision!” Aragorn realized with dread. Faramir’s visions, or rather Boromir and Faramir’s visions, were more powerful than he had first thought if they had been able to foresee an event none had ever thought would come to pass, not even Elrond.

“How it came to be here, now, none seem to know but it is here. The Ring of legend,” Legolas said seriously, his expression grim for he knew well the dangers of the One Ring.

“The One Ring of power,” Boromir mused before he looked at Legolas and Aragorn in turn, his expression eager and hopeful.” If we held it but a second we could free Gondor from the threat of Mordor.”

“No.” Aragorn shook his head in denial, his refutation strong and certain. “The Ring is pure evil. It would master the one who carries it; influence his mind. It answers only to Sauron and no one but he can wield it.”

Boromir looked disappointed then started to consider other options, other ways of getting the Ring to Gondor. 

“Even a King or an Elven heart would break before it?” Boromir asked hopefully, nodding to each of them in turn.

“Yes. The Ring must be destroyed,” Legolas said, no doubt in his mind. The risk was too great.

Aragorn was moved by Boromir’s easy acceptance of his birthright but he could still not give him the answer he hoped for. “Yes.” He paused before he added, “Your father will surely address this matter tomorrow. Under no circumstances may he send you to Rivendell for this is a land you have not yet walked,” Aragorn said with a concerned frown. He could not and would not lose Boromir. Some events might be predestined, his own line re-establishing the line of Kings in Gondor being one of these, but he refused to believe Boromir’s death was among them.

“He might insist on it. He will want the Ring for Gondor. Of this I am certain,” Boromir warned, having forced his disappointment of their replies to the back of his mind. He was not sure he believed or understood their fear or hesitation in regard to the Ring but he was willing to take Aragorn’s word for it. For now at least.

“If he finds this deed so important, he might not trust his youngest to do it,” Legolas added with concern, saying what Boromir had left unsaid.

“That is a given,” Boromir admitted sadly. He had never been able to understand why his father had not seen the valiant and admirable young man in his son that Boromir saw in his brother.

“That does not matter. Tomorrow when we debate this with Denethor, we **will** get him to send Faramir to Rivendell, no matter what we need to say to get him to reach this point,” Aragorn said with certainty for failure would be unacceptable. It would place both Gondorian brothers in danger, something Aragorn would not allow to happen. No, they **had** to convince Denethor; there was no other option open to them.

“And then you will leave as well, will you not?” Boromir asked softly, sadness in his voice, but his eyes remained on Faramir, afraid of what his eyes might reveal should he look at Aragorn. He had just returned, it had been here too short a time for him to try and draw a bit of Aragorn’s light unto himself. It was too little and maybe even too late but still he could not give up trying. Besides Faramir, Aragorn had been the only bright spot in his world and he was unable to let go of him even if all he had held for the last many years had been a ghost that had tormented him by its cold absence. Still, he preferred a ghost to having nothing at all. He fought to keep the wave of depression the thought of losing both his brother and Aragorn at the same time brought him but it was hard, harder than anything else he had ever attempted for both men held a piece of his heart.

“Yes. The Ring must be the reason for the growing threat from Mordor. I… Legolas and I must return,” Aragorn admitted softly, regret and pain in his voice at the words. He had always known he could not remain here but he had no desire to part from Boromir so soon, not while he still had not figured out what part of his heart Boromir would allow himself to own. Yet if he did not help bury the Ring, none would be safe; Boromir, who would remain so close to Mordor, least of all.

“I shall miss your presence.” There was such raw emotion in Boromir’s voice that Aragorn gasped in shock and hope that Boromir’s soul still had light left, but before he could respond, Boromir had returned his full attention to his brother. “Watch over him for me,” he asked softly, stroking Faramir’s cheek, his eyes and voice soft and filled with sympathy, guilt and unspoken affection. “He has been through so much… so much I could not spare him from.”

“I will. With my life if need be,” Aragorn vowed, a lump in his throat as he laid a comforting hand on Boromir’s shoulder.

Boromir nodded his thanks, but inside he was dying. Could he survive without Faramir? He had never tried to do so before. He had always assumed Faramir would be near, his warmth and love Boromir’s protection and blanket from the coldness of the world. Without it… what would he do without it? Without Faramir, without Aragorn… there were very few people left who could move him, and loving a country was mainly a cold and one-sided affair.

Unbeknownst to Boromir, Aragorn had similar concerns. Without Faramir, Boromir would be without his soul, without his love. Would he be able to withstand the shadow and the darkness that had taken his father? Would the piece of his heart that had not yet frozen be able to withstand the coldness that being left alone would bring? Agony at having to leave him alone in darkness tore at Aragorn’s heart but he knew he had no choice; he had a duty, an obligation, not only to see Faramir safe, but also to see all of Middle Earth safe from the threat of the One Ring. These would be words he would have to repeat time and time again to urge himself forward, always forward, yet Aragorn knew it would never erase the pain or fear for Boromir’s fate from his heart.


	19. Leaving Minas Tirith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir leaves with Aragorn

## Chapter 19: Leaving Minas Tirith

Boromir and Aragorn had let Faramir sleep as long as possible, but they had decided he needed to be present when they spoke with Denethor. Despite being groggy, still not over the shock of the previous evening’s events and in pain, they had managed to get him out of bed, dressed and on his feet. Faramir’s pride had taken easier to Aragorn helping him get dressed than his brother, as he was the healer among them. Boromir had happily stepped aside, just relieved that Faramir was able to get to his feet. His hand had become red, the skin angry and covered with painful blisters in some places and starting to peel off in others. Boromir had him drink as much whiskey as he dared to help him assuage the pain. Aragorn had helped Faramir into a loose white shirt that was easy for him to get into and had afterwards given him a new bandage and made him a sling to make sure he did not move his hand unless absolutely necessary as the slightest movement pained him. Aragorn had made a mental note to check Faramir’s hand regularly to make sure it did not become infected.

It was around noon when Aragorn and Boromir with determination searched for Denethor, leaving Legolas to keep an eye on Faramir. They found Denethor in the dining room, seated at the end of the large wooden table. They had called for Legolas and Faramir to join them and now the four of them stood before the Steward. Their sudden appearance had interrupted his lunch. Following protocol, the Steward had offered that they to join him, but they had all refused so they could get directly to the matter at heart. However, the talk had barely begun to fall on the Ring and the idea of letting Faramir journey to Rivendell, before Denethor had started to voice his disapproval of any such plans. Aragorn and Boromir had never doubted it would be hard to convince Denethor; they had just never thought it would be **this** hard.

“With the Ring in my possession, Gondor would be kept safe, and yet you ask me to send my youngest to fetch this mighty weapon?” Denethor asked with disbelief, looking at Aragorn and Boromir in turn.

“Surely the defence of Gondor is the most important task of all,” Aragorn said, trying not to push, knowing Denethor would be suspicious if he felt they wanted this too much.

“Look at him!” Denethor pointed towards Faramir who barely managed to stand on his feet unaided, his brow sweaty, his eyes glassy. He looked worn, ill and tired, making it possible he was developing a fever. “He can barely stand on his feet!”

  
“Whose fault is that?” Boromir snapped, his eyes cold when he looked at his father though his voice was low.

Aragorn cast him a warning look. Since the episode yesterday, Boromir had become almost hostile towards Denethor. It was as though he had had an epiphany and the choice he had not been able to make for so many years was now clear; he would protect his brother against all his enemies, including his own father. There was no longer any contest. Though his father’s words of praise or displeasure still reached his heart, though he still wanted him to love him… he now knew on which side he would stand if it came to that, and with that knowledge came clarity and a dark kind of peace.

“What do you say?” Denethor demanded to know of Aragorn and it was not clear from his expression or tone if he had heard Boromir’s words or not.

Aragorn put a calming hand on Boromir’s back for a brief second to offer support and to calm him. Without realizing it, Boromir leaned into the touch and his muscles relaxed under Aragorn’s hand, some of the tension and darkness in his gaze easing. “The Ring might not have these powers if indeed it is truly the One Ring at all. Would you have your oldest son fighting far from you, travelling on a fool’s errand?” Aragorn asked, trying for a darker approach and silently asking Faramir for his forgiveness, but if this was to work, they needed to speak Denethor’s language.

Denethor’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I would not speak too much, man elf, for your credibility is not high with me.” He held up two letters, which had been lying on the table beside his plate, his eyes now holding dark anger as he looked at Aragorn. Denethor received much news from all over the old kingdom to be able to manage the daily governance of Gondor, and the three men and the elf had not wondered what these letters might contain before now. Both letters had been opened and he continued, his voice angry as he waved the letters back and forth threateningly. “In these letters you put foolish notions in the head of my youngest, and worse still… try to corrupt my oldest, twist him to become something he is not; soft and weak and many other things so disgraceful I shall not even name them.”

“You opened the letter Aragorn sent me? My letter?!” Boromir asked, shocked and horrified, finding this an offensive invasion of his most private being. Aragorn’s letter had been for his eyes alone and no one else’s. He felt a great sense of loss that his father now knew what Aragorn had written and he still did not, having never been able to open it in fear of what realizations he would have to face…. Most notably that Aragorn was lost to him. He had thought the letter safe in the drawer of his desk in his chamber, as far as he knew no one but Aragorn and Faramir had known of its existence.

“That you never opened it gives you great credit, my son. However, that you kept it displeases me,” Denethor said, looking at him with a disapproving frown. After Boromir had interceded on Faramir’s behalf the day before, Denethor had become suspicious also of his oldest son. He had ordered their rooms searched and had found the offensive letters. They had only increased his suspicions and fears but he was still willing to give his oldest a chance to explain his actions. He had, after all, not opened the letter.

Faramir searched the pockets of his pants with his uninjured hand, only to recall he had laid the letter in his drawer in his room before the battle and had not been back to fetch it because of everything that had happened since. “I need my letter back,” Faramir said, his voice strong but thick with unvoiced emotions as he turned his eyes to his father. The letter had helped him through so much; it had been a part of Aragorn he had managed to keep safe and with him through his absence. The written words of love and encouragement had always been there; they had stilled a young boy’s tears and eased his pain when his father had scorned him. At the dark look in Denethor’s eyes, he added respectfully, “Please. The letter was for me and… and you have no right to it.” But his stare and words were stronger now, not a reproach but simply stating fact. He was Denethor’s son, and as such, would always love him but he was no longer a child; he had proven he hadn’t broken with each hit he had taken, though each one had hurt, they had also made him stronger.

“Both letters are a disgrace!” Denethor declared harshly, disappointed at Faramir’s reaction. With a swift movement he stuck the letters into the flame of the nearest candle on the table and they caught fire at once.

“No!” Faramir and Boromir yelled at once, and both took a step towards him but he put the burning letters on a silver tray that the bird he had eaten for lunch had been brought in on. They quickly burned out among the bones from the bird. Boromir held out a hand and half supported, half stopped, Faramir from trying to reach the table with an arm around his waist.

Unshed tears were in Faramir’s eyes, confusion and despair clouding his face. “You take everything from me I care for. Why?” he mumbled softly, more puzzled and saddened by his father’s disrespect and acknowledgement of his feelings than over losing the letter itself. Somehow he felt if he could just understand why his father despised him so much, he would be better able to deal with it.

Aragorn knew he needed to act before the episode could become explosive, which was a very likely possibility, with Denethor’s temper and Boromir’s anger. Besides this, Aragorn feared for Faramir’s health should he sink into despair. As a healer he knew well the power a heart and mind had over the body. “If you send Boromir to Rivendell, he will travel with me the whole time,” Aragorn said evenly, stating a fact. From Denethor’s expression, he could tell he did not like the sound of that at all, fearing Aragorn would use the time to turn his most beloved son against him.

“Mordor is growing stronger. The army will need a strong leader,” Legolas gave his input in a quiet voice and Denethor nodded thoughtfully, probably not realizing Legolas had not said which brother he was thinking of with that statement.

 _Why not go all the way?_ Aragorn thought. They needed Faramir to be the one to travel; it was the only way to save both brothers, and in his pursuit to see them safe, Aragorn would spare no effort. “The journey to Rivendell will be a dangerous one. The son you send might be lost on the way,” he said evenly. He could see Faramir flinch, knowing which choice that statement would make Denethor take. Aragorn was saddened he had had to say it but if it meant both brothers would be kept safe, Faramir’s anguish at seeing his father choose his brother’s life over his, would be worth it.

“Very well. Faramir can go to Rivendell,” Denethor said and the group managed to hide relieved sighs. “However,” Denethor added, giving Faramir a stern look, “I will see you return with the Ring or not at all.”

Faramir’s relief at knowing his brother would be safe pushed back the pain of having his father value his life less than his brother’s. For now he also pushed away his feelings of betrayal and hurt at his father’s destruction of Aragorn’s letter. Faramir nodded at Denethor’s words, his brother’s arm having fallen away as soon as Boromir had felt he was calmer. “I shall not fail in my duty as a son of Gondor,” he vowed solemnly.

“We shall see,” Denethor simply said, clearly thinking he would. “Now, leave me,” he added, making a dismissive gesture with one hand. He had a lot to think about, in particular in regard to his oldest son. Could he trust him like he always had or had Aragorn corrupted him like he had his youngest?

“As you wish,” Legolas said for them all and they all bowed before leaving the room.

Out in the hallway, away from his father’s eyes, Faramir gave in to the pain and breathed heavily, unconsciously touching his bandaged hand in the sling.

Boromir looked from Faramir to Aragorn. “We should let him rest for a few days before you take your leave,” Boromir said, concerned, unable to stop the hope this thought of keeping them here a bit longer sprung in his heart. He knew Faramir had to leave; he would be safer away from here. He also knew Aragorn could offer the best help to Gondor away from these lands and therefore also away from him. He remembered the shared dream he’d had with Faramir and how he had seen his own death far from here; he would have to stay behind. He knew all this. It did not stop the pain in his heart at the thought of letting both men go; it could not hold back a creeping despair the thought brought him.

Aragorn shook his head, regret in his eyes and voice. “Sadly; we cannot. Your father could change his mind.” He was in no hurry to separate from Boromir but he knew he had to.

“I am fine. I can travel,” Faramir calmed them, determination and strength in his voice, and his uninjured hand fell away from the sling. He would not be a burden and he would prove his worth as a son of Gondor. He would prove to his father that he was worthy of his love; that he was neither weak, coward nor fool.

Boromir hesitated, still unwilling to let his brother go now that the moment had come but knowing this was not about what he wanted, what anyone wanted. This was about Faramir’s life, his own life… all of their lives. “Very well. Legolas, pack Faramir’s, Aragorn’s and your own things. Aragorn, look after Faramir for me; prepare his wound for travel. I shall get the horses ready,” he ordered, taking command as he was used to, forcing his emotions to the back of his mind, refusing to consider the future which was now looking increasingly dark and gloomy.

“I will,” Aragorn promised, and with a last look at his brother and Aragorn, Boromir walked away. Aragorn looked longingly after him for a few seconds, unaware his expression had softened, his concern, care and love as if written on his face and in his eyes.

The moment broke when Legolas moved away to pack their things and Aragorn walked with Faramir back to his chamber to look at his hand. There did indeed seem to be a beginning infection and Aragorn used herbs and balms to try and fight it. He applied some healing ointment to numb the pain before he redressed his hand.

In the meantime Legolas packed Aragorn’s and his own things before packing a few belongings for Faramir. As the last thing, he collected some food for the journey from the kitchen while Boromir prepared the horses.

Caught up in their tasks, none had time to realize the seriousness of the situation until Aragorn, Faramir and Legolas were each seated on a horse in the courtyard, their belongings packed in their saddlebags. All had worn swords this morning and had dressed for travel and now, with not much light left of the day, they were ready to leave. Still something held the brothers and Aragorn caught in the moment, their minds ready to leave yet their hearts not.

Boromir stood beside Faramir’s horse and looked up at him, forcing himself to smile though his heart was heavy. Faramir looked pained but he held himself well and looked at Boromir with tears glimmering in his eyes. These were uncertain times and both brothers knew they might never meet again yet both fought to pretend it was not so.

“Safe journey, brother,” Boromir got out through the lump in his throat and Faramir nodded, momentarily unable to speak. Faramir reached his uninjured hand towards Boromir and they shook hands, warrior style, the moment thick with the bittersweet sorrow of parting. “I always knew you would leave, yet this day still comes too soon. In my heart you will always be my little one; my baby brother,” Boromir said softly, warmly though with a hint of sadness and loss. He was really leaving. For the first time, his brother would travel far from him and he would no longer be able to be the one to protect him as he always had. It still seemed unreal, like a nightmare.

“You were more than my defender and protector. Through the years you were my friend, my brother and my father. You had my love since the day I was born and you shall have it till the day I die,” Faramir whispered heartfelt, his eyes misty. It was rare he spoke of his great admiration and affection for his brother, knowing he was not really comfortable dealing with great emotions. However, in a moment like this, where Boromir would have to face the challenges and darkness of a country and father in great peril and need on his own, he felt it was warranted.

“That is all I need,” Boromir said, moved, as he released his hold on Faramir and drew back, fighting to regain his posture.

“No, it is not, but for now it will have to do,” Faramir said softly and Boromir nodded although the words left him a bit puzzled. What more could he want than the love of a brother? It had been all he had ever had and he had felt blessed for it.

Boromir forced himself to walk away from Faramir, not wanting to draw the moment out. He went to stand beside Aragorn’s horse and gently stroked its neck. The horse leaned into his touch. “You brought my horse back to me,” Boromir said softly as he raised his eyes and looked at Aragorn, not sure what he was really trying to say but knew it was more than the words implied. He had told himself when he had said farewell to Aragorn all those years ago that it was forever, even though he had tried to pretend it wasn’t. Letting go of him now was somehow harder; it was like having been shown an unreachable dream but only for a second. A dream of recreating the close bond he had had with Aragorn and the silent support the older man had always offered. Though Faramir had always been the light of his world, Aragorn had been the only one he had ever shared his worries and burdens with, the only one he had felt could lift some of the weight on his shoulders. The only one who had truly made him believe there was any hope left.   
  


“Her heart and mine carried us here,” Aragorn said calmly but warmly, fearing he had said too much with this confession but unable to contain his emotions in a moment like this. He knew this farewell could be forever but he always knew he would never allow that. He would return here, to Boromir, and he would discover what kind of love Boromir would accept from him. Hope and longing were all he had, but for now it would have to be enough. 

“She will carry you far still. She is more than a horse; she is a magical being and will never let you down.” Boromir explained what Aragorn surely already knew since the horse was still in its prime despite the passing of the years.

“She is you,” Aragorn commented off handedly but sincerely, making Boromir give him a surprised look, not quite sure what Aragorn meant by the comment, and not sure if he was ready to find out, so he did not ask. Instead he pulled a little back and got his thoughts back together.

“My brother will now travel far from me. Keep him safe.”

“I will,” Aragorn assured him and Boromir nodded and smiled sadly, though he was not sure why.

“I can see it now; your years far from here have turned a ranger into a King,” Boromir said softly and Aragorn nodded, knowing the words had a special meaning he had not yet deciphered and Boromir probably had not either.

“And you into a true Steward of honour and valour.”

Boromir nodded, feeling pride at the words; Aragorn’s praise warmed his heart in a way he couldn’t quite explain. He wasn’t sure what else to do or say. He wished he could keep them here yet he knew he could not; he knew there were no more words to be said.

“May your journey be a successful one,” he wished and was to move aside before the moment became too emotional when Aragorn handed him a letter he had had hidden in an inner shirt pocket. It was not sealed but simply folded a few times. Boromir took it with a questioning look.

“Read this one,” Aragorn requested, his eyes almost pleading and Boromir nodded, unsure of why this was so important to the older man, but if it was, he would do as asked.

“I will.”

Aragorn nodded and forced his eyes away from Boromir. He had quickly written the letter before he had gone with Legolas and Faramir to the stables. It had been an impulsive decision but he wanted Boromir to have something he could read over and over again that would bring him hope. More than that, he wanted to finally reveal a little of the depth of his emotions, hoping the warmth and light of his honest affection would ease Boromir’s heart and soul in what would surely be a hard and dark time for him; for them all. Loving Boromir had never been easy, but with each passing day, Aragorn knew he wanted no other kind of love. Boromir had the honour, valour, courage, intelligence and caring he wanted in a leader, a captain… and life companion. The question remained if the latter was possible, if it could be made possible, and if Boromir even wanted it, but Aragorn no longer had any doubts as to where his desires lay.

Boromir went to Legolas and offered his hand, which he took. “Take care of them,” he requested softly. Whatever resentment he had felt for Legolas was now gone, for a reason he did not know or wish to investigate, the fact that Aragorn a few hours earlier had told him Legolas was in love with Princess Arwen of Rivendell had helped this along. But even if this had not been so, the Elf would travel with his brother and Aragorn, and if he would protect them Boromir could never think ill of him in any way. No matter how much he wished someone to blame for the loss of his brother and Aragorn, he knew he could never again blame someone who had nothing to do with it.

“I shall,” the elf promised and Boromir nodded. He stepped aside so he was not in the way of the horses.

“Farewell,” he wished them all, trying for a hopeful smile. He tried to tell himself this was not forever, but the beginning edges of despair was close at his heels for how could everything ever be made right when so much had gone wrong?

Aragorn nodded at Boromir’s words and touched the flanks of his horse with his booted feet to get it to move, and Legolas followed. Faramir remained still for a second and cast Boromir one last look, and Boromir again attempted a smile but it was a broken one. Then Faramir made his horse move as well, smiling encouraging but sadly at Boromir, afraid this would be the last time he would ever gaze upon his brother.

“I shall bring her back to you,” Aragorn promised, echoing words he had spoken earlier, turning his head to look at Boromir who grinned, the tension of the day, the danger of Denethor changing his mind, the fear of this farewell being forever, making it easy.

“I know.” It was easy to pretend he did know this. It was what he wanted to believe.

“We shall **all** return, brother,” Faramir vowed strongly, and Boromir nodded, emotions whelling up in him, for if he knew anything, it was that the likelihood of Faramir’s vow being fulfilled was slim at best.

“I know,” he whispered so softly the three riders would not have heard, not even Legolas.

Boromir stood and watched as the riders left the citadel and rode through the city. He went to stand on the city wall and watched them ride as fast as the wind across the plains and away from Minas Tirith, taking his heart with them, his very soul.

When the horizon had swallowed the riders, Boromir remained standing where he was. It was as if should he remain here, he did not have to deal with them being gone. He did not even have to think.

As the last light of the day was dimming, Boromir shook his head and forced himself to focus on the present once more. There was much work to be done on Gondor’s defence and hopefully the war would keep his mind busy so he would not have to think too much about anything else. He did not want to think of Faramir being gone, that he could be injured on the journey or maybe even die, too far from him to be able to sense it through their special bond. He did not wish to think the same terrible fate could be Aragorn’s. He did not wish to think of his father whom he had more conflicted emotions toward than ever, especially now that Faramir had gone, and with his leaving, he could no longer pretend the cause was not his father. He did not wish to think of the fate of Gondor or all of Middle Earth, or his own fate for that matter, for he saw little hope, little light. Was everything to fall to ruin? Was all lost? All hope gone? With Faramir’s departure he had lost a brother’s love, affection and light. With Aragorn’s departure he had once again lost a confidante, a man who had been his support and his one safe haven; the only place he could come to ease his burdens without embarrassment or resentment. Without a word being spoken.

At these thoughts Boromir felt a shadow, a darkness nearing his heart, a coldness invading it. The darkness began to freeze his blood to ice and fought to turn his heart to stone. At first he didn’t fight it. Why should he? There was no hope left, for him or for anyone else. Suddenly he felt the letter he had kept in his hand since Aragorn had given it to him. Aragorn’s words, filled with intense and almost desperate pleading echoing in his mind, _read this one_. _Read this one_ , his voice kept saying in Boromir’s mind, over and over again until the dark and cold shadow stopped its advancement over his soul. Fighting the weary feeling the darkness brought him, he nevertheless obeyed Aragorn’s voice and unfolded the letter as he had promised he would. Aragorn’s handwriting was strong, bold and forthright, yet with an elegant and majestic air it had not had before he had left Gondor. Boromir quickly read the short note.

_Boromir,_

_My heart is yours. I think it always has been._

_Let my love keep the light in you alive._

_Yours,_

##### Aragorn

The words were simple; the letter was simple, yet they held a power that shocked Boromir to his core. The words warmed his soul and heart, melted away the ice, fought back the darkness and broke down all walls. There was a smile on his lips now, a glow in his eyes. He loved Aragorn. He knew it now, maybe he had always known, yet he had never dared to admit it. Now, seeing Aragorn’s words he could admit it, if nothing else, then silently to himself. Yet could one man truly love another as strongly as he loved Aragorn? Was this love or was it admiration for a fellow leader and warrior? No, it was more than that; stronger than that. It could only be love. He knew what comradely love was; he had that in the army with his closest officers and brothers in arms. He knew what brotherly love was; he had that with Faramir. Yet what was this love? He had long thought it to be brotherly love, and once it probably had been but he now knew it was no longer true. What then was this love? This love that warmed his entire being, body and soul? It mystified and bewildered him. He found he did not have to find the answer right now. Aragorn’s words, his admission, was a gift, uncomplicated and freely given.

Boromir’s smile widened, and he looked out to where Aragorn had disappeared. He still felt the shadow tearing at the edges of his soul but it was now held at bay by the light Aragorn’s words had ignited in his heart and for now… for now that was enough. “Thank you, my friend,” Boromir whispered softly into the darkness.

No matter what might happen, whether they met again or not, at least he had had this. In this moment, this tender feeling he held for Aragorn, whatever it was, was simple and pure. It just was.

As the months passed, through battles, blood and news of growing threats, whenever Boromir felt the shadow draw near, he would reread the letter, always carrying it with him. And each time he read it, he would smile. That smile would ignite the light within his heart and the shadow would be kept at bay.

Yet as time passed, one day after another, always bringing bad news, hope was hard to keep. The darkness drew closer and Boromir was forced to watch his father slip further and further into the despair that threatened to take his soul as well. He fought to keep a flicker of hope by remembering his brother’s love and rereading Aragorn’s letter, yet it was hard to light a fire in an icy wasteland. He knew he would fall if the tides of the war did not turn soon, if he did not see his brother or Aragorn again, yet he fought with everything he had to keep the shadows at bay. For now, believing in dreams and embracing ghosts would have to be enough…. It was all he had while he feverishly prayed good news would arrive soon… before it was too late. Too late for Gondor and too late for him.


	20. The Council Of Elrond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir and Aragorn attend the Council Of Elrond

## Chapter 20: The Council Of Elrond

Faramir, Aragorn and Legolas made good time to Rivendell despite consideration to Faramir’s injury. There had been some attacks on the route from rogue Orc bands but the three riders luckily did not run across any. Despite Faramir’s sadness at leaving Boromir behind, he recovered quickly under Aragorn’s healing hands and watchful eyes. Aragorn got the infection and beginning fever under control, much helped by Faramir’s lifted spirits and added strength. Away from his father and Gondor’s struggles, the young man finally had a chance to, for a little while at least, forget his father’s disapproval of him. Out here, surrounded by freedom and people who had complete faith in him, Faramir’s self confidence grew. He would see his brother again; he would see his nation again. He would not fail. He could do this. With this newfound strength, Faramir was able to regain his childhood joy and fascination of the journey he was taking. Within a few days he was eagerly questioning Legolas about everything under the sun. Legolas would patiently answer all his questions, charmed by his youthful thirst for knowledge.

Aragorn was relieved to find Faramir’s mood improving despite his worry for his brother. While Faramir worried Boromir should be hurt facing the forces of Mordor, Aragorn was more worried for his soul. Boromir was a great warrior and Aragorn had every faith in his skills in that area. What worried him most was if Boromir lost hope. Would the same darkness that had claimed Denethor take his oldest son? Would his letter, his declaration of love, really be enough to prevent this? He had to have faith and believe it would be enough… at least for now.

Though Legolas had explained the ways of the Rivendell Elves in detail to Faramir, the young man had still gasped in awe and joy when Rivendell had come into view. Once in Rivendell, Faramir had been like a child who had been given permission to sample everything from the kitchen at a winter feast. He wanted to see everything there was to see in the beautiful Elven city, meet every Elf there was. Legolas introduced him to his beloved, the beautiful Princess Arwen, with whom he spent as much time as he could from the moment they rode into Rivendell. Her beauty and sweetness enchanted him and they became fast friends, their kind hearts and gentle spirits connecting them. He listened to the various Elven dialects, trying to understand them; he looked at their clothes, their bearing, the houses and the horses. He loved the gardens and the serenity of the place. He was even more delighted when he found there were also four Hobbits staying in the city as well as Gandalf, who had brought the Hobbits safely here, although with some difficulties, due to a run-in with some Orcs. Luckily Elrond’s twin sons had been nearby and they had come to the rescue, making sure the Hobbit Frodo reached Rivendell in time for Elrond to heal the wound he had received in the skirmish.

Faramir had come upon the Hobbits, Pippin and Merry, in the garden and had fast become friends with them, intrigued by their cheerful outlook on life and charmed by their innocence. He had also had a joyful reunion with Gandalf, embracing him warmly and Gandalf had been happy to see one of his favourite students again.

Aragorn spent much time with Elrond, updating him on the situation in Gondor, and introducing him to Faramir. With Elrond’s help, Faramir’s hand healed completely and only some faint discolouring and pale, small, white scars were left as evidence of the test of his love and honour. Despite the pain and the scars, Faramir did not regret his actions. For that one moment, to hear that one flicker of pride in his father’s voice, it had all been worth it.

Elrond had called more than Gondor to Rivendell; he had called representatives from all the people of Middle Earth to decide on the fate of the Ring. He had sent one of his sons to Isengard to bring Saruman to the meeting but he had not yet returned. Elrond delayed the meeting as long as he could but time was of the essence and they could delay no longer despite Elrond’s concern for his child.

After Faramir had been ten days in Rivendell, Elrond had called the Council meeting and now various races were gathered, sitting in a half circle around a stone pedestal in an open pavilion in Elrond’s palace, bearing sober and serious expressions.

For the meeting Faramir was seated at Aragorn’s right side while Legolas sat at Aragorn’s left side. Some chairs to Faramir’s right was seated Gimli who represented the only race he had not yet met: Dwarfs. Elrond was seated across from Faramir together with the other Elves, Gandalf seated beside them. Faramir had only seen Elrond when he had healed his hand, as he afterwards had been too much in awe of him to be able to spend much time with him. Like Aragorn when he had first arrived, Elrond’s authority reminded him too much of his father for him to instantly feel at ease in his presence, even though he knew for Aragorn to regard him as highly as he did and love him so dearly, he had to be a good leader and man.

“Strangers from distant lands, friends of old. You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-Earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate - this one doom.” Elrond began the meeting, his face serious. He gestured to the pedestal. “Bring forth the Ring, Frodo.”

Faramir had been introduced to Frodo earlier that day, as he till then had been recovering from his wound. He had felt a sadness, a burden, in the young Hobbit that had reminded him of his brother. He wondered if the two of them because of this kinship would have been connected or repelled had they met.

Frodo put the Ring on the pedestal and Faramir looked at it in wonder. It was a plain gold band, just like the ring from his visions. It seemed harmless, but as he looked at it, he felt darkness and dread reach out to him, whispering in his ears and making him shiver, feeling coldness freeze his heart. He shook his head as if to clear it, and when next he looked at the Ring, all was silent and the coldness and shivers were gone as if they had never been. Shaken, he levelled his eyes to look above the Ring but still in its direction.

When the gathered group had gotten over the shock and surprise at seeing the fabled One Ring, talk broke out in the circle, everyone whispering or talking at once.

“It is really true.”

  
“The One Ring…”

“None of us can wield it. The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master,” Aragorn said strongly, firmly, before anyone could suggest such a thing, feeling it needed to be said because of the look of awe some of the humans wore and the look of greed from some of the Dwarfs when they saw the shiny and precious metal.

“Aragorn is right. We cannot use it,” Gandalf said.

“You have only one choice. The Ring must be destroyed,” Elrond added, nodding his agreement to both Aragorn and Gandalf. The three of them had already decided on this plan of action in private the night before and they had agreed to do their best to convince the Council; they knew well the danger the Ring represented.

“What are we waiting for?” Gimli said and grabbed his axe and approached the pedestal.

“No!” Gandalf warned but too late. Gimli swung the axe full force at the Ring and was bounced back. The axe broke into a thousand pieces and splinters of it lay around the intact Ring.

Frodo moaned in pain and Faramir pressed a hand to his head, wincing, feeling a shadow trying to dig into his very soul, the pain more intense than anything he had ever felt. It was like something was trying to pull out his whole being through his skull and he briefly closed his eyes against the pain.

“The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Gloin, by any craft that we here possess. The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came,” Elrond explained.

“Surely a brotherhood of the Elven race would be best suited for this purpose, my Lord Elrond,” Faramir suggested respectfully, turning to look at Elrond as he spoke, one hand still on his throbbing head but the pain was fading now. However, what was troubling him was why he had felt this pain in the first place. Besides Frodo, no one else seemed to have been hurt by Gimli’s attempt. What was the connection between the Ring and him? Just the thought that there should exist a connection beyond his visions made him frown with concern.

Elrond shook his head. “This task cannot be done by one race alone. This must be a united effort. However, the burden of the Ring can lie with only one person.” He paused before he added, “One of you must bear it.”

“Impossible!” one of the men gathered at the Council shouted.

“The Ring must be destroyed!” Legolas said with certainty.

Gimli looked at him with distaste and jumped to his feet. “And I suppose you think you’re the one to do it?!”

“I shall do my part,” Legolas said evenly.

“I will be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an Elf!” Gimli said hotly.

“Why should I trust a Dwarf when your race do nothing but hide, and mine for gold?” Legolas gave back.

Suddenly arguments erupted all around and Faramir once more felt a weight pressing on his skull as if it was about to explode; it was as if the pain was intensified by the violence that had exploded around him. He grimaced from the intense pounding and pressed both hands to his temples while he looked at the gathered group through pain-filled eyes. He noticed that, as before, only Frodo seemed to feel the same pain.

“Never trust an Elf!” Gimli yelled but the rest of the debate faded into nonsense as Faramir fought not to fall from his chair from the pain in his head.

“Faramir, are you in pain? Is it your hand?” Aragorn asked in concern and was suddenly beside him, standing beside his chair, looking at him with the compassionate and worried eyes of a healer, trying to see if he had any injuries. His hand should be completely healed but it was the only injury Aragorn could think of, as he otherwise looked unharmed.

“Do you not understand that while we bicker amongst ourselves, Sauron’s power grows?! None can escape it!” Gandalf’s voice broke through, but the arguing continued.

“No, my head. I don’t know why I feel this way,” Faramir admitted through clenched teeth, looking up at Aragorn and attempting a reassuring smile but it turned into a grimace of pain, ruining the effect he had intended. “Yet I am sure it is somehow connected to the Ring.”

“I will take it! I will take it!” Frodo’s voice broke through the arguments and everyone fell silent. Aragorn turned and looked at Frodo in surprise, as did everyone else. Frodo had moved from his seat in the circle and now stood close to where the Ring lay. “I will take the Ring to Mordor. Though… I do not know the way,” Frodo went on, looking around for help, a lost but certain look in his eyes.

Gandalf rose and held a half proud and half sad look in his eyes as he laid a comforting hand on Frodo’s shoulder, proud of the Hobbit’s courage yet saddened he had to bear such a heavy burden. “I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, so long as it is yours to bear,” Gandalf promised.

Aragorn gave Faramir a concerned look but he nodded, indicating he was all right. The pain was fading now, as suddenly as it had appeared. He took his hands away from his temples and his whole body seemed to relax once more.

Aragorn went to Frodo. “If by my life or death, I can protect you, I will,” he said sincerely, his eyes on the Hobbit as he spoke. He knelt before the small Hobbit before he added in the same tone of voice, “You have my sword.”

Legolas walked to stand by Aragorn. He would have done this task even if not Aragorn had been here, yet as it was, he was not willing to let his bond brother go into danger without him. “And you have my bow. “

Gimli gave Legolas a grim look, clearly not wishing to be outdone by an Elf. “And my axe!” he said, walking to stand before Frodo as well.

Faramir was relieved to find the pain in his mind fading quickly. With renewed strength he walked to Frodo, carefully avoiding looking at the Ring, remembering the sharp pain that doing so had brought him earlier. “You carry the fates of us all, little one. If this is indeed the will of the Council, then Gondor will see it done,” Faramir said strongly, knowing he was now speaking on behalf of his nation, and unconsciously he used his brother’s nickname for himself when addressing the brave Hobbit. He knelt before Frodo and held a hand to his sword. “My sword is yours to command.”

“Heh!” another Hobbit suddenly said, startling everyone when he jumped forth from behind some bushes. The blond Hobbit had been at Frodo’s bedside since arriving in Rivendell and Faramir had first been introduced to him earlier that day when he had also met Frodo. His name was Sam. “Mr. Frodo is not goin’ anywhere without me!”

Elrond smiled in amusement and Faramir thought it made him look a lot more approachable and less intimidating. “No indeed, it is hardly possible to separate you even when he is summoned to a secret Council and you are not.”

Pippin and Merry emerged from behind some of the pillars of the pavilion where they had been eavesdropping and joined them. “Wait! We are coming too!” they said in union.

“You’d have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us!” Merry said strongly and Faramir smiled fondly. What brave creatures these Hobbits were despite their childlike size. 

“Anyway, you need people of intelligence on this sort of mission, quest... thing,” Pippin insisted.

“Well, that rules you out, Pip,” Merry teased and Faramir smiled, as did the others, letting the Hobbits’ loving banter lift their spirits.

Elrond looked at them all in turn before he nodded with a small smile. “Nine companions... So be it! You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring!”

His words set an almost ceremonial atmosphere and everyone wore solemn expressions as they rose or otherwise withdrew from where they had been standing or kneeling before Frodo. 

“Great! Where are we going again?” Pippin asked with puzzlement, making Faramir laugh out loud, more to get the relief from the sound than because his words had been all that funny.

Slowly the Council disbanded and everyone prepared to leave Rivendell the next morning. Faramir wished to remember as much of his visit to Rivendell as possible, not sure if he would ever return, so he used the time to explore the city some more, trying to burn the memory of its beauty and tranquillity into his very soul. He carefully sought to avoid Frodo who now wore the Ring around his neck on a chain, knowing that somehow the pain he had felt at the Council meeting was connected to it.

Suddenly he found himself in the library and he went to look at the large shelves with books, wishing he could read every one of them. As night was starting to fall, he had brought a candle with him and he held it close to the back of the books to be able to read the titles. Caught up in reading the books’ titles, it took him some time to notice Elrond sitting silently in a chair in a corner of the library, a single candle on a small table beside him the only light. He was to leave to politely grant him privacy but then he hesitated. The Elven Lord of Rivendell looked lost and sad as he sat here alone, his eyes staring unseeing straight ahead into the darkened room instead of on the map in his lap. In the midst of beauty, he looked deeply troubled and Faramir felt a wave of sympathy hit him, thinking he knew what was troubling the Elf.

  
“Your son will return to you,” Faramir said softly, horrified to find his soft words echoing in the high ceilinged room. His words startled Elrond who now turned his full attention to him.

Faramir was to turn and leave when Elrond’s voice stopped him. “Thank you,” he said warmly and Faramir turned back to look at him, seeing the hope, the love in his eyes. It was clear the Elf loved his children deeply and Faramir’s feeling of uneasiness faded in the light of this fact.

“Lord Elrond, may I speak?” he asked politely and Elrond nodded and waved at him to indicate he should sit opposite him on the divan that faced the chair he was occupying. He had been studying a map, trying to find the safest and fastest route for the Fellowship to walk so he could propose this to Gandalf when his concern for his son had distracted him. Though his son was long since grown, having had him near for thousands of years did not ease the thought of a possible loss; on the contrary it increased the agony, especially when, as Elves, they were rarely ready to accept death, used to being able to cheat it.

“Speak, Faramir of Gondor,” Elrond invited, laying the map on the table beside his chair.

Faramir seated himself and put the candle on the floor at his feet. He fiddled nervously for a second or two under Elrond’s stoic gaze before he asked, “I was wondering why you do not send more warriors to destroy the Ring?”

“Sauron would detect it if I send more,” Elrond said calmly but then gave Faramir a piercing look. “Yet this is not why you are here.”

  
“No,” Faramir admitted softly. Though he had wondered about this, he had every faith in the wisdom of the Elves and besides… Aragorn trusted them and that would have been good enough for Faramir under any circumstances.

“Aragorn told me about your pain at the Council and how you thought it connected to the Ring. He sought my advice on how to best aid you,” Elrond explained and Faramir looked expectantly and hopefully at him.

“Do you know what is wrong with me, my lord?” He asked, his voice between curiosity and hope at finally finding answers, and worry over what reply he might get.

“I saw a future where your brother came here instead of you and he would have acted very differently,” Elrond said thoughtfully, almost speaking to himself.

“I know I cannot live up to his standards but I swear I shall do my best not to fail you or this quest,” Faramir vowed, his voice humble yet strong.

“No, young one, I meant that you being here brings more balance to the Fellowship yet you have to pay the price for this… for changing that which had been laid out,” Elrond said gently, taking a liking to the young mortal for his kind ways.

“Gandalf told me the future is never set in stone,” Faramir said with a concerned frown, afraid he might have done something that would harm Gondor or his brother.

“It is not,” Elrond agreed. “However, unlike your brother, you soul and heart is pure and open. You came here like a child would.”

“I will turn 18 soon… I am not certain I understand,” Faramir admitted.

“Despite all you have been through your soul is still young, pure… open. Sauron senses that. The Ring senses that. Such a soul is not easily tempted but it **is** easily pained,” Elrond explained, having been told a little of Faramir’s family situation from Aragorn, though his adopted son had always been mindful of what he said out of respect for Faramir and Boromir’s good name and reputation.

“Pained? How?” Faramir asked with worry, praying this would not make him a liability to the Fellowship.  
  


“By the pain of others. What you felt was the backlash of your compassion and sympathy for the lives the Ring, Sauron, showed you in your soul he would destroy. Only few who have a soul like yours can sense the Ring. Aragorn spoke briefly to me of your ability to receive visions; this is your connection to time, to existence itself. It is a rare ability among mortals but likely the reason for your aptitude to sense the Ring, Sauron, and vice versa. I know this because the Ring has the same pained effect on some Elves, among others, my daughter, which is why she was not at the Council meeting,” Elrond explained, his care and love for his children, and in particular, his youngest and most beloved daughter, clear in his voice. “Frodo’s life has, after his attack, become attached to the Ring and Sauron, which is why he too can feel the Ring.”

“How can I stop it? The pain grew so strong that at one point I feared I would pass out. If that happens during battle….” Faramir voiced his concern.

“You could get killed,” Elrond supplied for him, his voice holding a note of sympathy.

Faramir looked surprised at him, having never considered that. “No, I meant I could let the others down… mayhap even get them killed.”

Silence settled over them until Elrond said, clearly impressed by Faramir’s reply, “Your soul is what protects you from the temptation of the Ring. Your pain is what protects you. You cannot and should not outrun it. However, if you try not to look at the Ring or be too near it… the pain should be less frequent and less strong,” Elrond advised.

Faramir nodded and smiled, relieved. “I shall endeavour to put as much distance between the Ring and myself as possible then. Thank you.”

  
Elrond nodded, and a calm, yet somewhat sad, silence settled between them, making Elrond feel like he was standing on a battlefield with the bodies of many friends shattered around him like he had so many years ago. To shake the grim image he said, “You have a long way to travel… pick a book from my library to keep your spirits up on your travel. You will not be required to stand watch **every** night and I saw you eyed them all longingly.”

  
Faramir looked at him in surprise and joy, letting the prospect of owning a real Elven book distract him from thoughts of a journey that could very likely claim his life. “You are certain, my lord?”  
  


Elrond smiled kindly, relieved to see some of the strain had left the young mortal’s face. ”Your fascination is flattering. Yes, I am certain.”

Before his eyes, the grave young man became the enthusiastic child once more, and unable to contain his joy, Faramir rose and went to Elrond’s chair. He took his hand in his and clasped his elbow with the other. “Thank you!” 

Remembering that Elves rarely touched, and as far as he knew, never gave in to such impulsive and emotional behaviour, Faramir blushed and drew back at once, the action so quick Elrond had no time to return the warm handshake. “My apologies,” he mumbled, embarrassed.

“Don’t be. I enjoyed to once again feel the pure affection normally only found in the youngest of Elves,” Elrond said warmly, and with one last smile, he took the map and left the room.

Faramir looked after him with a smile and now knew how Aragorn had grown into such a natural leader… Elrond had been a great teacher.

When the Fellowship left the city of Rivendell, they did so with a sense of hope, despite Legolas’ sorrow at leaving his beloved again so soon. Until they were out of Rivendell’s forests and grounds, some Elven scouts and hunters followed them, granting them a feeling of safety they would not have later on. Faramir used the safe journey at the beginning of their travel to catch up on his friendship with Gandalf, speak with Aragorn or Legolas, and enjoy life’s simpler pleasures with Merry and Pippin and, if time permitted, to read the book he had borrowed from Elrond’s library. Everyone knew the seriousness of their mission, but for now there was still time for play and laughs. Much of this was supplied by Merry and Pippin, to Faramir’s open amusement, grumpy amusement from Gandalf, Gimli and Aragorn and subdued amusement from their elegant Elf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last of this week's large update. I hope my story help someone through these hard times.  
> If you are enjoying this story please leave kudos and a comment; even just an emoji. It would mean a lot to me. Thank you!


	21. Approaching Amon Hen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The followship split up and is attacked

## Approaching Amon Hen

As the Fellowship had proceeded past Rivendell’s protection the journey had proved more dangerous and difficult than they had first hoped. At first there had been ample time for talk and getting to know each other. Faramir had enjoyed catching up with Aragorn and Gandalf and learning more about the ways of Elves, Hobbits, and Dwarfs, staying clear of Frodo and Sam though. He had noticed Frodo’s sad look at this and had explained to him why he kept his distance and Frodo had understood. Despite his precaution, Faramir had suffered several painful attacks and as the journey stretched on they became longer and more painful, a fact he fought to hide from the others, feverishly praying he would not put the others in danger because of something he considered a weakness in himself. Aragorn had tried to help him ease the pain with herbs but the attacks had become so powerful they at times forced him to his knees in agony. Luckily so far none of the attacks had happened while they were combating the smaller Orc parties they had run into. Faramir had sought Gandalf’s advice on how to stop the painful attacks which of all the Fellowship members seemed to be targeted only on him. Even Frodo was luckily spared similar attacks. However, all the wizard could tell him was that the attacks seemed to draw strength from Mordor and would likely intensify the closer they got. Sauron sought his destruction and was likely able to locate him by locating the Ring. Why Sauron seemed to focus on the young man this intensely was unknown to the wizard. Was it because of his ability to receive visions? If so why? There were much more powerful members of the Fellowship. Or was it because by him being here instead of Boromir something had changed, a balance had shifted? Had Sauron felt the darkness had had a better chance of stealing the heart of the oldest brother of Gondor and was now angered to have been denied this chance?

Those questions remained unanswered as the death of Gandalf in Moria put everything on hold, freezing them all in their grief and despair. His death crippled them all. Faramir never took out his Elven book again after this, Aragorn looked like he carried the weight of the world alone, Legolas became more silent, and all in all a feeling of dread and uncertainty settled over the group.

Bringing the discouraged group to Lothlorien had been a stroke of brilliance on Aragorn’s part. Burnt out and ready to give up hope, the meeting with the beautiful Kingdom and the magical Elves living there had brought back hope and peace to them all. Faramir in particular had been overjoyed to find that Queen Galadriel was the lady from Aragorn’s childhood tales. Faramir had been greatly fascinated by the Queen and he had equally fascinated her. She had told him that never before had she seen such a pure soul in a grown mortal being. While pure of heart, Aragorn knew the trials of defeat and carried with him the guilt of a failure committed by his forefather thousands of years ago. Faramir’s soul was as if newborn, untainted, and thus his pain and love was also equally pure and raw.

Everyone had been sad to leave the peaceful country behind. Safe within Lothlorien it was as if the War was not happening, and they could pretend for a moment or two that their very lives were not about to be torn apart. Even Frodo seemed less troubled here and Faramir suffered no attacks while under the Queen’s magical protection. Yet leave they had to, and armed with various gifts from Galadriel, among others, capes and boats, they had left by sea. Faramir had been surprised by her gift to him, a golden pin formed as the Elfish letter for nine. She had asked he fasten it on his inner shirt, hidden under his clothes, over his heart. Puzzled, but not one to ask questions of this powerful and magical being, Faramir had done as asked, thanked her, and left with the others.

Soon they reached Amon Hen and Faramir begun to get a strange sensation of uneasiness in his chest. He ignored it and helped Aragorn and Legolas set up camp while Gimli tended to the boats and thereafter went in search of firewood for their new camp.

As the minutes ticked by the sensation of danger began to grow to become a cold shiver down Faramir’s back and a fist of ice closed around his heart. There was something evil about this hill; Faramir was sure of it.

“What troubles you?” Legolas asked, concerned, sitting down next to Faramir. The young mortal was sitting on a fallen tree at their new campsite, a frown on his face and a far away look in his eyes.

Legolas’ words brought Faramir out of his musings and he turned and smiled at the Elf. “My thoughts were elsewhere,” he apologized.

“You are not at ease here.”

It was not a question. Faramir nodded and lost his smile. “Something is not right.”

“I sense it too. A darkness lies over these hills.” Legolas nodded towards their surroundings.

  
Faramir looked relieved at him. “Thank Eru it is not just me. I feared I had lost my mind… jumping at ghosts.”

“It is not just you,” Legolas assured him warmly. “I sense a…” he paused and his face became serious and concerned, “No, more than darkness. I sense death.”

“Orcs?” Aragorn suddenly asked, making Faramir jump in surprise while Legolas calmly turned to see Aragorn standing beside them. The Elf had heard his approach despite the Elfish stealth Aragorn’s years in Rivendell had taught him.

“Possibly.”

Faramir scanned the small campsite. “Where are the Hobbits?” he asked, concerned. If Orcs were near they would need to assure their safety. 

Legolas and Aragorn turned to scan the camp as well. “They are not here,” Aragorn said unnecessarily, concern and disbelief in his voice as if he could not understand that they weren’t. “I told them to stay,” he added with annoyance.

“We must search for them,” Legolas declared and jumped to his feet, picking up his bow and arrows from where he had placed them near a tree. Faramir rose as well and turned to Aragorn to hear how he wanted to conduct the search.

“Faramir, search west. Legolas, go east. I shall go north,” Aragorn ordered, one hand on his sword handle as he met two pairs of concerned eyes.

“If we find a Hobbit shall we return to the campsite with him or go in search of more or you?” Faramir asked.

“Return here.”

“Aye.” Faramir nodded agreement for both Legolas and himself.

“Move out,” Aragorn ordered, easily falling back into the leadership position he had held with the Rangers. They quickly scattered, Legolas and Aragorn falling almost naturally into the forest.

As Faramir searched for the Hobbits, his worry rose and his feeling of uneasiness only grew. As often before since his death Faramir wished Gandalf was with him; he would know what to do. “Merry? Pippin? Can anyone hear me?” Faramir called when he could see no signs of Orcs or anyone else in the forest for that matter. His hand rested on his sword handle, ready to draw it and sweat appeared on his brow. He had not even been this nervous the first time he had gone into battle. _Relax_ , he sternly told himself but it didn’t help.

The silence of the forest seemed deafening. The Hobbits couldn’t have moved so far away. His whole body was now on alert and as taut as a bow’s string. “One would think I was attending my own funeral pyre,” Faramir mumbled softly, wiping his brow with a hand. Why had he made that comparison, knowing what he had seen in his vision; himself burning? What was wrong with him? He fought to get his expiration and heartbeat under control but had little success.

“Faramir!” Sam’s voice caught him and Faramir was relieved to focus on something else besides his strange sensations. The Hobbit ran to him, looking very worried, running faster through the forest than Faramir had imagined the Hobbit would be able to move.

“There you are,” Faramir said, relieved when he saw him. “Come, we must return to camp.” He put a hand behind the Hobbit’s back or rather his neck to steer him in the right direction but Sam pulled away from him.

“Master Frodo says he is leaving. You must stop him,” Sam insisted, sounding panicked, his eyes large and pleading, and Faramir inwardly groaned. Being near Frodo meant being near the Ring. Just what he did not need in his present condition.

“Lead me to him,” Faramir ordered, fighting to ignore the voice in his mind screaming this was a mistake. Frodo was in danger; he had to do something. Still, the feeling that he was playing right into the hand of danger, of destiny, did not leave him.

Sam led him to the seaside and he saw Frodo had taken one of the boats and must have walked with it onto the shore, dragging it further up the riverbank. Far enough away from the camp so he would not be easily spotted from there. He was now ready to sail away and was preparing the boat to do just that.

“Frodo. What are you doing?” Faramir asked carefully, stopping some ten paces from him, hoping it was distance enough from the Ring. Frodo turned to look at him and Sam, who stood beside Faramir, pain in his large blue eyes.

“I have to leave. Galadriel told me this.”  
  


As Frodo had turned to face them, Faramir had caught a glimpse of the Ring around the Hobbit’s neck and at once his head began to pound. He bit his lower lip and winced. For now the pain was bearable and he levelled his eyes with Frodo’s, carefully avoiding looking at the Ring.

“Why do you leave those sent to protect you?”

Frodo took a step closer to him and Faramir forced himself to stay put though the pain in his head grew worse. He had to fight the instinct to move as well as the instinct to make the useless gesture of stroking his forehead with his hand.

“Can you protect me from yourself?” Frodo asked softly and there was a plea in his eyes that said he wished for a yes. He looked tired and worn, as if wishing for someone, anyone, to ease the heavy burden he was carrying.

Faramir hesitated. The pain in his mind grew and made concentrating hard. “I do not desire the Ring. My only desire is to be far away from it,” he admitted with a painful grimace.

“As your pain grows could you vow you would never be tempted to take the Ring for yourself to get rid of it faster? Mayhap simply out of desperation? Or…the pain growing so great it would end up destroying you or forcing you to end your own existence to escape it?” Frodo asked, compassion and fear in his voice, for the first time saying out loud the fears Faramir himself had also had.

“I know not the strength of my will or soul. I have long doubted both but if the Lady of the Golden Wood think it best we part…” he took a deep breath, knowing Aragorn was not going to be happy with this but trusting he would understand, “then we part.”

Frodo looked relieved yet scared, caught between being happy and sad that he was being allowed to leave without a fight. “Thank you.”

Faramir nodded before he knelt before Frodo so they could be eye to eye. “You are now our only hope yet I have faith in you, little one,” Faramir said softly, seriously, and Frodo nodded, accepting his faith and the burden it brought with it.

As Faramir rose once more Frodo went back to the boat after giving Sam one last agonized look but Sam was too stunned to do anything, as if shell-shocked into silence.

Seeing Frodo about to leave made Sam spring into action. “You should stop him! You have to!” he insisted, tugging on Faramir’s sleeve, desperation, fear, and need in his voice as he looked from Frodo and up at Faramir. Frodo would be all alone, he might get hurt and would have no one to carry him if he fell… No, he could not go alone out there…he could not! Surely Faramir, seemly reasonable, for a human being, could see this as well?

“It is not my place to do so,” Faramir said softly as his eyes went from Frodo to Sam, knowing deep inside this was true.

Sam saw the boat pull out and tears began to stream down his cheeks as he looked out towards Frodo. “Do not go where I cannot follow,” he mumbled, sounding heartbroken.

Faramir’s compassion and sympathy overwhelmed him as he witnessed Sam’s agony at being left behind by the man he clearly loved more deeply than anything else. The warm emotions seemed to have given the darkness an opening for the pain in Faramir’s mind intensified. “I would not stop him…nor would I you,” he said softly as he looked down at Sam, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder, trying to offer what little solace he could. Sometimes the only kindness available to give was the knowledge that you would not have to be alone should the world end…that you would face the end with a loved one by your side.

Sam looked surprised and taken aback, but then he smiled and briefly laid his own hand over Faramir’s on his shoulder until Faramir withdrew his hand. “Thank you. You are a good man,” he said warmly and Faramir nodded his thanks.

“Mister Frodo. Wait for me!” Sam called out, and without apparent further thought he jumped into the water and began to half-swim and half-walk through the water in his eagerness to reach the boat.

Faramir watched anxiously on the shore. He had just decided to jump in the water after Sam because it looked like he would not make it all the way out to the boat on his own, when an arrow suddenly whished through the air and caught him in his left leg near the knee. He gave a yell of surprise and pain, swayed but managed to stay on his feet. As he turned around he saw several Orcs advancing on him from the forest. Adrenaline made his breathing quicken and his heart beat faster.

  
“Faramir!” Frodo called from the lake, his voice frightened, but Faramir had turned his back on him and drawn his sword. He could not let the Orcs reach the Hobbits; the fate of Middle Earth now rested in their hands.

“Frodo, do not linger! Take Sam with you and be on your way,” Faramir yelled over his shoulder, his eyes on the Orcs, praying Sam made it to the boat and Frodo would do what he asked and leave.

“I have Sam with me,” Frodo yelled back, letting him know he had made it to the boat.

Faramir felt a wave of relief at this. They had done their part; now he needed to do his. His leg was throbbing painfully and he reached down and tore the arrow out, giving a yell of agony as he did so. He moved away from the shore to have a better terrain for fighting, his injured leg making it a slow process. Then, just as he had reached the onset of the forest, the first Orc was upon him without warning. His injured leg was dragging him down but he could still move. He tried to keep his weight off the leg as much as possible to save strength for when he would have to move quickly. The pain from the arrow wound wasn’t as distracting as the pain in his skull. While still bearable, the pain was growing, making him wince in agony. He silently prayed that as Frodo moved further away from him the pain would lessen. So far it was becoming steadily worse and thus more distracting.

The fight seemed to last a lifetime. One blow, then the next. There was nothing in the world for him but this battle, this moment. He fought to recall every move taught to him by his teachers, his brother, and Aragorn. He managed to kill a few Orcs and wound several. As time passed the pain in his head was growing instead of dimming, blood was running down his leg and the pain and blood loss was making his defence less than perfect. He knew it was only a question of time before the Orcs would have him pinned down and he briefly wondered if Aragorn and Legolas were safe, hoping they were. His thoughts then went to his brother. He was safe. He had to be. He needed to believe it.

A sudden sound, an Orc battle command, made Faramir break through the cloud of increasing pain and exhaustion he had been caught in. Most of the Orcs took off and the rest backed away from him. Faramir kept his sword in front of him, trying to keep an eye on both his flanks at the same time. Dread took hold of his heart. Had they captured Frodo and Sam? Had it all been in vain?

Before he could do anything else the pain in his skull intensified as if on command and with a yell of pure agony he fell to his knees, fighting to still hold onto his sword. “Ahhh!” His yell echoed through the forest, seeming to mock his pain by being bounced back to him. He fought to get to his feet but blood loss, the pain from the wound in his leg, exhaustion, and the blinding agony in his skull kept him on his knees.

“Saruman said the child of Gondor shall not return…now he never will,” a Uruk-Hai said with glee in his voice as he came out from the forest and walked towards Faramir.

Faramir gasped in shock. Saruman was working for Sauron! Hearing this shocking news, he feared for the fate of Elrond’s son. As this thought filled his heart with sympathy and fear, he felt the pain in his mind intensifying even more though he hadn’t thought it possible.

Faramir lifted his head to look his would-be killer in the eye, seeing the arrow aimed straight at his heart as the Uruk-Hai came to a stop in front of him. Suddenly he realized why he was here, what was happening. This was his dream. This was…this should have been Boromir’s death. Yet Boromir was now safe…he was safe!

Faramir smiled through the pain and the agony in his skull lessened a little as a feeling of serenity fell over him. “I die for my brother gladly,” he said softly, looking the Uruk-Hai straight in the eyes as he spoke, his gaze never lingering. His face held a proud and certain expression, unafraid now of what was to come, accepting it gladly. His right hand still managed to hold onto his sword and though he doubted he would be given the opportunity to use it, at least he would die with sword in hand as a warrior should.

“Foolish human!” The Uruk-Hai sneered and fired his arrow, keeping his distance to ensure Faramir would have no chance to escape his fate.

Time seemed to slow down, and Faramir closed his eyes, smiling as childhood memories came to him. Boromir playing with him, Aragorn reading an Elven poem to him under a tree, playing with Kanó in the garden….

A sharp pain hit his heart and he thought, _This is it, I am dying,_ yet he felt no regret, only a sense of peace; the pain and the loneliness was ending. His death had a purpose; Frodo and Sam had to have escaped or the Uruk-Hai would likely have taunted him with their capture. Gondor had Her champion safe and with Her. He smiled inwardly as he thought, _This is a good death. I got this part right if nothing else._

Suddenly a bright light exploded and when Faramir opened his eyes again he saw the arrow lying at his knees, broken in half and the Uruk-Hai standing in front of him, looking shocked.

“What magic is this?” he asked, clearly shaken, but Faramir just shook his head, not knowing what had happened either. Then it came to him… Galadriel’s gift! Could it have done this?

“Your head should not be as well protected,” the Uruk-Hai said with a dark smile and took out another arrow. This time he aimed at his head and once more Faramir met his gaze evenly, once more finding peace in what was to come.

The arrow never fell. Aragorn jumped into view from the forest and tackled the Uruk-Hai.

Faramir drew a deep and relieved breath; accepting death and wanting it were two very different things. He tried to stand but found his legs too weak to move. He was light-headed and had to fight to just stay conscious on his knees. His leg wound had not been this serious; what was wrong with him? He tried again to stand and again he found his body too weak to obey him. He was now barely able to keep his grip on his sword handle. He registered that Gimli, Legolas, and Aragorn fought the remaining Orcs around him, making them join the bodies Faramir had left on the ground, but his vision and concentration was fading.

“Faramir?” Aragorn’s concerned voice and his warm hand on his shoulder brought his focus back to the present and Faramir saw that Aragorn was kneeing in front of him, looking at him with worry heavy in his eyes. Legolas and Gimli stood some feet away, looking concernedly at him as well. All the Orcs, including the Uruk-Hai, were either dead or had run off.

“You saved my life,” Faramir said softly, drifting into a delirious haze from a feverish pain that raged through his body with alarming speed. His brow was sweaty, he felt as if he was starting to burn up, and his heart was beating faster than if he had run for miles. He registered with relief that at least the pain in his skull had finally faded away.

“I promised Boromir I would bring his brother… **our** brother back safely,” Aragorn said warmly though anxiously, and Faramir smiled faintly.

“I knew he would ask this of you…you do it so well,” he mumbled, the delirious state making him say whatever was on his mind. His eyes were starting to close, his mind starting to lose its hold on consciousness.

“Faramir, can you stand? I must move you and tend to your wounds,” Aragorn was saying, now sounding really worried, almost panicked.

 _I must be worse off than I first thought to worry him so_ , Faramir thought weakly. He wished to assure Aragorn he was all right but as he tried to lift his arm to put it over Aragorn’s hand in a reassuring squeeze, he found it felt heavy as lead and he could not move it.

“I can stand,” he insisted groggily. He let go of his sword, and leaning heavily on Aragorn with Aragorn helping him Faramir put an arm around his shoulder and rose with him. Aragorn had both arms around his waist, having thrown his sword on the ground in front of Faramir. With his help, Faramir managed to rise, gasping from the pain and the strain of the achievement. However, as soon as he was on his feet he felt the world swing out of focus; darkness appeared at the edges of his vision and his grip around Aragorn’s shoulders loosened.

“Legolas!” Aragorn yelled over his shoulder as Faramir lost consciousness.


	22. Meeting Eomer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fellowship meet Eomer who agrees to help Faramir.

## Meeting Eomer

Aragorn had with Legolas’ help got an unconscious Faramir back to their camp while Gimli kept them covered, keeping watch for any approaching Orcs. Back at their campsite Aragorn had begun to tend to Faramir’s wounds while Legolas had kept watch. Meanwhile Gimli had gone searching for the still missing Hobbits.

When Faramir awoke some time later, his mind in a drugged but fairly pain-free state thanks to Aragorn’s herbs, he had told them about Frodo and Sam but that still left Merry and Pippin unaccounted for. Aragorn had found some tracks on the forest bed and from these had deduced Uruk-Hai had taken them. Faramir knew he would be slowing the Fellowship down considerably, but none of the three warriors would listen to him when he claimed he could stay behind and find a way back to Rivendell on his own. Most likely it had something to do with his statement being followed by him passing out again.

So the four of them had moved out, hunting the band of Uruk-Hai who had taken Merry and Pippin. Aragorn had cleaned and bandaged Faramir’s leg wound. His herbs lowered the fever and took the worst pain away, ensuring Faramir could travel on his own. The progress was slow though, but luckily they did not run into any Orcs. On the other hand they did not run into anyone that might be able to help them either.

They were now crossing the Riddermark. Legolas was scouting ahead in the hope of being able to give them warning should an enemy approach. Gimli was looking around intensely some distance from Aragorn and Faramir, searching for any clues to the whereabouts of their small friends. They had been walking since early light and the strain was starting to take its toll on Faramir. He was leaning heavily on the thick walking stick he had found to help him take the weight off his leg.

Aragorn noticed Faramir’s distress though he was biting his lower lip to prevent small sounds of his exertion to escape. He went to him and supported him with an arm around his waist, laying Faramir’s free hand over his shoulder for better support. “You look very pale. Mayhap we should stop for a while,” he said, sounding worried, his healer’s eyes obviously noticing Faramir’s fatigued state, the sweat on his brow, and how he fought to hide the pain and exhaustion he was feeling. As a result, he was forced to lean heavily on Aragorn.

“I…can continue,” Faramir insisted, sounding out of breath. The Little Ones were in danger; he would not abandon them now. During the journey they had become dear to him. He could make it; he would have to. The pain was not what worried him; he could bear it. It was the exhaustion and delirious state Aragorn’s herbs were helping him fight. The arrow he had been shot with had been poisoned, and even now he could feel the venom spread through his body like a hungry flame. He knew he would need to go to a Healing House to get the antidote for the venom; at the moment Aragorn’s herbs were merely keeping the poison at bay. However, right now the most important thing was rescuing Merry and Pippin.

“You are a poor liar,” Aragorn scolded as he searched for a spot to let Faramir take rest. He found a place nearby where the earth had formed a small hill about the height of two full-grown men. He helped Faramir sit down next to it, leading his back against the small rise. Faramir tried to contain the moan of pain as he was helped down but couldn’t quite help but let it escape. Aragorn looked worriedly down at him. Due to the poison, his wound had become infected, angry, and red. He did not have the proper herbs around to treat it.

His second worry was what Faramir had told him his would have been murderer had said. That Saruman had joined with Sauron had shocked them all, and the safety of Elrond’s son was now a great concern. However, that the Dark Lord had a specific interest in seeing Faramir dead was definitely worrisome news. Aragorn knew well Sauron had a particular interest in seeing him dead since he was destined to become the King of Men, but why would Saruman seek Faramir’s destruction? The only conclusion he had reached had been the same as the one Gandalf had; that Faramir having joined the Fellowship instead of his brother had shifted the power balance away from Sauron. Something the young man would do or could do had the potential to harm Sauron, mayhap even turn the tides of the war. He had voiced both concerns he had about Faramir to Legolas. The Elf had agreed and had emphasized that unless they could allow Faramir rest and proper care in a House of Healing, he would not survive long. The poison within him was strong and would eventually be able to overcome the healing powers of Aragorn’s herbs.

“Legolas, we need to take rest,” Aragorn called to his far off friend, knowing his superior hearing would pick it up. Legolas turned towards him but then stopped and seemed to listen to something in the wind. When he turned back again towards Aragorn he broke into a run. Aragorn’s heart began to beat faster and he got a very bad feeling from watching his Elven friend’s haste.

“What do you see, Elf?” Gimli asked grumpily as he went to stand beside Aragorn. He would never admit it, but everyone had seen how the Elf and the Dwarf had drifted closer together through the ordeal the quest had turned out to be.

Legolas reached Aragorn, Faramir and Gimli. “Riders are approaching,” he warned and looked worriedly down at Faramir. The young mortal sat up straight, looking alert, one hand tightening around the walking stick he used for support. Still, he looked weak and ill, his brow sweaty. The more and faster he moved, the faster the poison would spread through his body. He was in no condition to do battle, but the Elf had no doubt the mortal would still put up a fight.

“Help me to my feet,” Faramir asked, sounding determined and reached out a hand towards Aragorn, the other tightening around the walking stick to use it for support.

“You should not be on your feet,” Aragorn protested, though he knew this was the healer in him speaking and not the warrior.

“If I die, I die standing. Now help me up,” Faramir insisted and with a concerned frown Aragorn took his hand around the wrist and helped him to his feet by putting his other arm around his waist. Only when Faramir was standing securely on his feet did Aragorn release his hold on him.

Faramir let the walking stick drop to the ground, needing both hands in case he needed to draw his sword. If enemies were approaching it was best not to let them know how weakened he really was. Though the bandage around his leg would betray his wound it would not reveal the real injury, the poison in his blood.

“Be ready but no one draws weapons yet,” Aragorn ordered, his hand on his sword handle, as the small band stood close together, tensely awaiting the riders approach. The small hill at their backs ensured they only had three direct flanks to cover, but it also meant fewer escape routes. The earth began to shake in warning before several riders came into view.

“The flag of Rohan,” Faramir whispered, relieved as he saw it though all remained standing close and on alert, keeping their weapons ready. Rohan should not be in conflict with Gondor or Rivendell, but these were uncertain times. If Saruman could join Sauron, old allies could not be assumed to remain loyal.

The riders stopped before them, circling them. The leader moved his horse a bit closer to them than the others. All wore helmets that concealed their faces and completed the impressive image they made as warrior horsemen. “Riders of the Riddermark. We mean you no harm,” Aragorn greeted them.

“What business does an Elf, a Dwarf, a man, and a sick child have in the Riddermark?” the leader asked coldly, looking at Gimli, Legolas, Aragorn, and Faramir in turn. He seemed to be considering whether or not to believe Aragorn’s words.

“I am no mere child but Faramir, brother of Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor,” Faramir said as strongly as his weakened body allowed him to, his gaze calmly fixed on the leader.

“Faramir?” the leader asked, sounding surprised as he jumped from his horse.

“Yes,” Faramir confirmed, his expression guarded, not sure why the leader would react to his name.

As the leader took a step towards Faramir, Aragorn drew his sword and moved his body to half-shield the younger man. “Harm him and I shall have your head,” Aragorn said darkly and pointed his weapon at the leader’s neck though he kept it some distance away. After the revelation that Saruman wanted Faramir dead, Aragorn was obviously taking no chances.

At once the leader’s men drew their lances, pointing the weapons straight at them. This made Gimli raise his axe, and Legolas put an arrow on his bow. Both focused on the leader’s men as Aragorn seemed to have the leader well covered.

“I mean the youth no harm,” the leader said calmly, seemingly unafraid despite the sword at his throat, as if certain Aragorn would do him no harm as long as Faramir was unhurt. He added over his shoulder, “Lower your weapons.”

  
His men obeyed at once and Gimli and Legolas lowered theirs a bit but not all the way, determined to stay alert until Aragorn told them to do otherwise, or they saw proof the riders truly were peaceful.

“Who are you?” Faramir asked curiously. He was feeling safer now, more willing to trust the leader’s intentions were good after he had had his men lower their weapons. Faramir’s heartbeat was slowing down again, his breathing coming a little easier. The excitement and tense moment had not been good for his condition; already he was feeling sweat spring out on his forehead and his leg wound was throbbing painfully. 

The leader removed his helmet to reveal the face of a strong warrior, a man with dark eyes and long light hair. His grim face fitted his extremely fit body and ‘rock’ was the best comparison Faramir could think of. “I am Eomer, son of—” the leader began.

“I remember you!” Faramir interrupted happily and laid a hand on Aragorn’s arm. “He is a friend. Boromir and I played with him and his sister a few times as children.” They had never been close but he trusted him without question.

Aragorn recalled the episodes Faramir spoke of though he had not taken part in them. As Faramir drew his hand back, Aragorn put his sword back in its scabbard. Seeing this, Gimli and Legolas lowered their weapons all the way. “My apologies. These are uncertain times,” Aragorn said to Eomer who nodded understanding.

“What business brings Gondor’s son so far from home?” Eomer asked curiously.

“The growing threat from Mordor,” Faramir told him and then frowned in concern. “We are looking for two of our friends, Hobbits. They would have been like children to your eyes. Have you seen them?”

“They were taken by a band of Uruk-Hai. We tracked them here,” Aragorn explained, accepting Faramir’s judgement of this man as he would his own.

“My riders and I conquered a band east of here. Yet I fear if they were among them they will be dead now,” Eomer admitted regretfully.

“Oh, no,” Faramir mumbled sadly. They had become good friends, so kind-hearted…they should not have died here…they should not even have been here.

“We have recently discovered Saruman has joined forces with Sauron. Be aware of this when hunting,” Legolas warned, the sadness at the probable death of the Hobbits clear in his voice.

Eomer nodded, a grim expression on his face. “We discovered this when Orcs wearing the White Hand of Saruman were found.”

“Can you take us to where you battled? We will not give up on our Hobbit friends before we have seen their bodies,” Aragorn said.

Faramir fought to stay conscious through this debate but darkness was at the edges of his vision. The excitement had meant the poison had been pumped faster through his bloodstream, fighting Aragorn’s herbs viciously. He swayed on his feet.

The movement caught Aragorn’s attention, and he quickly moved to support the young man. “Deep calm breaths. Easy now,” Aragorn instructed as he took Faramir’s arm and let it rest around his neck to get a better grip on him, his other arm going around his waist.

Faramir gratefully accepted the support, feeling too weak to reject the help.

“How badly is he wounded?” Eomer asked, sounding worried, his eyes scanning the young man to look for other signs of injury than the bandage around his leg.

“It was but an arrow wound but the arrow was poisoned,” Aragorn explained and nodded towards the bandage around Faramir’s leg.

“He requires a healer who has access to the herbs needed to make an antidote,” Eomer said with certainty. 

“Can you take him back to Edoras?” Aragorn requested, his voice hopeful. “Let your healers tend to him?”

A flash of pain ran over Eomer’s face. “I was thrown out from Edoras on the pain of death. The King is not himself. He listens to the foul whispers of his advisor, whom I am certain is a spy for Saruman,” he concluded darkly, rage in his eyes. .

“Can one of your men take him close to the city?” Legolas asked, concern over Eomer’s news clear in his voice though it was apparent he was still hopeful Faramir could be helped.

“Yes, but he will have to travel the rest of the way into the city on his own,” Eomer replied and looked worriedly at Faramir’s sweaty and pained form, obviously not sure if the young man would be able to do so.

At these words Faramir stood up straight and drew a little away from Aragorn. He looked Eomer right in the eyes. “Get me there and I swear on my brother’s life I can make it to the palace,” he said strongly. His mental strength and conviction forced the pain and exhaustion back. 

Eomer looked doubtful but then nodded, apparently moved by the strength in Faramir’s eyes. This was his one best chance of survival. “I recall the love between the brothers of Gondor and know the worth of your vow. One of my best riders shall take you as close to the city as he can.” Eomer waved towards one of the riders who came forth, the reins to a second horse, riderless, in his hand. “The horse used to belong to one of my riders who fell in battle. May he serve you well,” Eomer explained when he saw Faramir’s questioning look in regard to the horse.

Faramir nodded his thanks and reached out his hand. Eomer shook it warrior style, hand around his wrist. “I am in your debt,” he said sincerely. His grief at the likely loss of Merry and Pippin was lessened slightly at the thought that he might get a chance to avenge them. 

  
“My sister remains in Edoras. She walks in shadow now, I fear, and my heart is heavy with worry. Thank me by protecting her,” Eomer replied honestly and Faramir nodded as he drew his hand back.

“I shall protect her with my life if need be,” Faramir vowed, recalling the protectiveness Eomer had always shown his sister when he had met them as children, as well as the love between the siblings, something he could understand well.

Eomer nodded satisfaction to his words and Faramir walked to the horse with Aragorn’s help, Legolas and Gimli moving with them.

“It was an honour to meet you, Master Dwarf. I hope to see you again,” Faramir said with a smile to the Dwarf as he stood beside the horse.

“I would fight beside you, human, any day,” the Dwarf replied, his voice rough with unspoken emotions.

Faramir then turned to Legolas and his smile softened. “Thank you for showing me that my childhood tales of Elven strength, beauty, and valour were true.”

The Elf smiled kindly as they shook hands. “Travel well, son of Gondor.”

Faramir finally turned to look at Aragorn who still had a hand around his waist to be able to support him. He knew, as they all did, that there was a very real possibility that he would never see any of them again. “My brother, my captain…my King,” Faramir said softly, warmly yet respectfully. After seeing Aragorn again there was no doubt in Faramir’s mind; Aragorn was more than a descendent of the line of Kings…he would fulfil the prophesy and become King of Gondor, bringing back the royal line as it had long been foretold. “I would have followed you to Mordor and back.” Faramir wanted him to know he was loved; as a brother, as a captain and leader…and as his King and commander.

Aragorn nodded, moved by the words and the love and loyalty they promised. He felt the young man give him a half hug, one arm already around his neck for support. “I know, brother,” Aragorn said simply, the plain response conveying his own love and faith.

As Faramir drew back from him, Aragorn helped him into the saddle without any more words, being as careful as he could around his injured leg. The strain still made Faramir sweat and feel jabs of pain move through his body. He bit his lip to keep from voicing his distress. When he was sitting securely on the horse he drew a relieved breath. In the meantime Legolas had placed Faramir’s belongings in the horse’s saddlebags.

“Safe journey,” Eomer wished him when Aragorn had moved a little away from Faramir.

Faramir nodded, looking from Eomer to his three friends. He could see the worry in their faces and forced a reassuring smile to hide the strain he was feeling. “Thank you. Safe journey to you all,” he wished back before his guide began to ride off and he rode after him, forcing himself not to look back.

The ride towards Edoras was a long and painful experience for Faramir. He was in a way relieved to find his pain and fever rising because this prevented him from anxiously hoping Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli did indeed find the Hobbits had somehow survived, praying if Merry and Pippin had survived they had found a safe haven. It also kept him from worrying about Frodo and Sam’s fate and most of all…from worrying too much about his brother who, despite the distance, was always close in his heart. He did not wish to consider that he could have seen all his friends and his brother for the last time. Thankfully he was saved this agonizing worry at least, as he was spared neither pain nor feverish shivers. By the time Edoras came into view he was so ill no other thought than getting through this moment and then the next registered with him. His world was reduced to nothing but this; to reach the palace in Edoras. He had forgotten why it was important, but he knew he had given a vow and he **had** to reach it. He had to. Somehow…he had to get there, even if he had forgotten why, his mind clouded by pain and fever, his body exhausted and weak, he just knew…. He had to reach it.


	23. A Vision In Edoras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir meets Eowyn in Edoras and has a vision

## A Vision In Edoras

The ride from the Riddermark to Edoras had severely worsened Faramir’s condition; the poison was winning its battle against the last of Aragorn’s herbs. The relatively short ride from where Eomer’s rider had left him to the palace had proved more exhausting than he had hoped. Before entering the city he had had to take off his horse’s battle gear, reins, and saddle as these wore Rohan’s mark. He had kept the saddlebags with his belongings in them since they wore no mark. Though he had often ridden without saddle and reins it always demanded more strength to do so, strength he in his present condition did not have. However, even in the delirious state the fever put him in he knew he had to continue; he had to make it. Stubbornness more than anything else carried him through the city. He caught quite a few looks from people when they noticed his ill appearance as he rode by them but he barely registered it; the palace was his goal and only thought. The fever and pain made it hard just to focus on this one thing. His wound was now throbbing so badly it echoed painfully through his entire body at even the slightest movement.

When he finally reached the palace he was so exhausted and weak he had to clench his teeth firmly together, his brow and hands sweaty from the strain, just to remain upright on the horse.

On top of the stone steps to the palace stood a beautiful young woman about his age. She wore a long white dress with wide sleeves that reached the ground, her long blonde hair flying in the wind as she looked out over the city and towards where he was coming from. The banners of Rohan were playing in the wind beside her, giving the impression she was a personification of Rohan itself; beautiful but untamed. She caught his eyes at once, and looking at her made Faramir momentarily forget his pain. She was breathtaking yet looked so sad…so searching, a longing feeling echoing from her entire posture.

He apparently caught her eyes as well and she hurried down the many stairs from her viewpoint overlooking the city. She reached the foot of the stairs the same time he pulled to a halt before her. Having seen her come down, two guards went to him as well as if to ensure he was no threat.

“You are a vision of beauty,” he mumbled as he looked down at her, his fever making him say exactly what was on his mind.

She stood beside him, a worried look in her eyes as she looked up at the flushed, sweaty, fevered, and delirious rider. Knowing he had reached his goal, that he was finally here, his body at last gave in to the pressure of exhaustion, pain, and fever. With her beauty on his mind, Faramir slid into unconsciousness with an eased spirit. He never saw how she ordered the two guards to catch him before he fell off his horse, nor how she ensured he was gently eased to the ground.

For the next many days he drifted in and out of consciousness. He remembered little from those days except a woman’s soft voice and a cooling cloth to his fever-hot brow. The face of the lady he had seen earlier kept dancing before his eyes, a warm presence that gave him strength. 

Finally, this time when Faramir opened his eyes the world was no longer fuzzy around the edges, his fever had broken, and the pain from his wound was minimal. The poison must have been beaten for he no longer felt its hungry flame racing through his body. He felt stronger, though still very tired, but his mind was clear and alert. He had not felt the pain from the Ring since he had been wounded, and gathered he would be far enough away now to avoid being forced to relive that ordeal again. He turned over as he became more awake and looked at the room he was in. It was clearly a part of the palace, the room was nicely kept and contained the large wooden bed he was in as well as a nightstand, a desk, a chair, and a wardrobe. All the furniture was beautifully crafted from the finest wood with many decorative details. There were fine metal candleholders mounted on the walls and candlesticks were left on the desk and the nightstand. None of the flames were lit. He could see from the sunlight shining in through the room’s only window that it was around noon.

“You have awoken,” a female voice said with relief and he turned from looking out the window towards the voice. He saw the beautiful woman he had seen at the stairs standing at the entrance to his chambers. She entered his room, bearing a basin with water, and fresh bandages. She was dressed finely but more practically for playing the job of nursemaid, than what she had worn when he had seen her earlier. The dress she wore now was clearly of high quality, soft green and brown with decorations around the edges of it as well as in the seams. The dress had long tight sleeves, perfect for working with her hands. Her long hair was braided and fastened in the back, giving her more room to work if she needed to bend down. Her appearance now gave her beauty a stronger look, taking away some of the fragility and helplessness the other dress had laid upon her beauty, and replacing it with a sense of purpose and strength.

“You have tended to me?” Faramir asked quietly, his eyes softening as he followed her as she crossed the room and put the basin and bandages on the nightstand next to him. He had been with a few tavern maids his brother had introduced him to, when his older brother last summer had decided he should know what being a man meant. However, never had he looked at a woman and felt what he did now. He was infatuated, held captive by her fragile-looking strength. She was different than any other woman he had ever known; he knew this just by looking at her. There was worry in her face, she had a grace and beauty that was breathtaking, but it was the strength in her eyes, the pride with which she held her head high, that made him wish to smile warmly at her and do nothing else but admire her all day.

“Yes. I am Eowyn, lady of Rohan. Daughter of Éomund, sister of Éomer, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, sister-daughter of Théoden, King of Rohan,” she introduced herself as she seated herself at his bedside and looked down at him.

He was surprised by the hint of defiance as she mentioned her brother, as if she expected him to speak ill of the warrior. He was even more taken back by the knowledge that she was royalty, and the young girl he had played with a few times in childhood.

“My Lady,” Faramir said formally, respectfully, moulding his behaviour into something more befitting her newly revealed status as royalty. He rose on one elbow to give her a respectful nod of his head instead of the bow he would have taken had he been standing. “Surely you need not tend to the wounds of strangers.”

“A son of the Steward of Gondor is no stranger to me. I would trust none else to care for this man’s injuries,” Eowyn said as she rolled up Faramir’s blanket from the feet’s end, up to his knee, leaving his bandage visible. She began to change it with a nurse’s gentle but professional care, washing his wound.

“You know who I am?” he asked, surprised, momentarily forgetting his embarrassment at having his vision of beauty tend to his injury.

She nodded while washing his wound, having put the dirty bandages on the nightstand. “You wore the mark of the White Tree on your uniform. Your clothes are from fine material, and you wear the uniform of the captain of the Gondorian rangers. Only a son of the Steward would earn this title,” she explained as she bandaged his wound. . “Your wound is healing nicely; the infection is gone,” she said with satisfaction as she completed her work.

“How did you know I had been poisoned?” Faramir asked. He had surely not been in any condition to tell her.

“Orcs have become more daring. You are not the first warrior shot by their poisoned arrows that our healers have seen, though sadly most did not survive the ordeal. You recovered faster from the poison than anyone I have ever seen,” she explained gravely, looking at him as she spoke with a hint of curiosity in her eyes.

“Healing herbs were given to me from the moment I was wounded,” Faramir explained, reluctant to mention Aragorn’s name after Eomer had revealed the King’s advisor was likely aiding Saruman. She nodded understanding of this but did not ask who had prepared the herbs for him, respecting his decision to stay silent on this point.

“You recall we met as children?” he asked curiously, hopefully, impressed by her show of intelligence. Sadly many men neglected the education of their daughters, he was happy to see this was not the case with her. He had never wished for a woman who could only satisfy a political alliance and fill his bed while being pleasing to the eyes; he wished for more than that. Looking at her now he recalled she had always been more daring and outspoken than any other girl he had ever met. He wondered if she recalled their earlier meetings. He certainly remembered her. Not in the sense of love or anything as predestined as that, but with a feeling of…of being happy with her. Of being at ease whenever he was near her.

She nodded and smiled at him as she sat up straight, covering his legs once more now that his wound was tended to. “I do.”

“I met your brother,” Faramir told her, thinking if she cared for her brother as much as he cared for his, which he recalled from childhood she did, she would wish to know this right away.

“Does he fare well? Last I saw him…” she began, sounding worried, eagerness to hear news of him in her voice. Then anger set in, clouding her eyes and face. “Last I saw him was after Wormtongue had had the guards beat him.”

“Why would the guards of Rohan treat your honourable brother so disgracefully?” Faramir asked, shocked, sitting up in bed sharply, wincing as a wave of pain and nausea hit him. Obviously his wound was not as healed as he’d thought when lying down.

She put a gentle hand on his shoulder and he let himself fall back to the pillows.

“He showed my uncle evidence that Saruman has been sending Orcs into our lands, but I fear my uncle is under Wormtongue’s spell. He called my brother a liar and a traitor. He banned him from these lands…lands he has bled for to keep safe,” she admitted sadly, looking down at the blanket covering him, despair and pain on her face.

He reached out a gentle hand and took her under the chin, making her lift her eyes and look at him. “Your brother fares well and defends Rohan even now. Do not trouble your heart; he is strong and will find a way,” he said softly, comfortingly.

She nodded and smiled, obviously relieved as he withdrew his hand. “Thank you,” she said, heartfelt.

“No, my Lady, thank you for tending to me. I am in your debt,” Faramir said warmly, his eyes focused intensely on her.

The warmth in his gaze made her blush and she looked down. “No debt needs to be paid, Faramir,” she said softly. “And please, call me Eowyn. We knew each other as children; let us not be strangers now.”

Faramir nodded agreement. “As you wish… Eowyn.” He paused before he asked, surprised but pleased, “You also guessed the name of the son of Denethor you were tending to?” 

She smiled as she rose, putting the dirty bandages in the basin and walking to the door. There she turned back to face him, the basin supported against her hip with one hand. “Had your youth not given you away, your actions here now would have. As children you were always the kinder, gentler, of the two of you. I saw this gentleness in your eyes and touch today.”

Before Faramir could reply she had left, closing the door behind her. Faramir smiled to himself and looked out the window, thinking of her. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt a sense of peace in his heart as he let himself rest against the pillows; a peace disturbed only by his concern for his brother and friends. When sleep claimed him, it was with a smile on his lips and Eowyn’s warm presence on his mind.

Three weeks passed and Faramir grew stronger by the day. He was now able to move around with the aid of a walking stick. The fever was gone and the wound was closing, reduced to nothing more than a mild distraction. He had met Theoden but had not spoken much with the man, or rather was not allowed to. Wormtongue, who was constantly at the King’ side, had looked at him as if seeing a ghost. Even dressed in plain pants and a loose white shirt, clearly still recovering, Faramir’s presence had shocked the King’s advisor to a degree that had made Faramir suspicious. He had quickly agreed with Eowyn that her uncle was under a spell. His pained, old, and drained appearance amplified this, and he agreed with her that Wormtongue was definitely dangerous. However, as it was, there was little he could do but obey the King’s wishes, that he did not desire to speak with him again, even though he knew the words were Wormtongue’s and not the King’s.

A week ago he had been able to take a walk outside the palace and Eowyn had showed him the fantastic view from the top of the palace, the stables, and her most beloved horse; a gift from her brother. The two of them had spent a lot of time together and had grown closer. Still there were no secrets shared, and Faramir wished he knew what to do; how to explain what he was feeling. This desire he had to be near her, to please her. How sad he was if she wasn’t close, how his heart warmed if she smiled at him.

Faramir’s favourite place to be was the library. Here he found many books the library back home in the citadel did not have. He had silently vowed he would try and get copies of the books should – no - when - the War ended with a successful outcome. When…he had to believe that or else he would have condemned his brother, not to mention Aragorn, to death.

Faramir had just picked out a book and seated himself in a wooden chair in the library behind a large wooden desk, intent on learning more about past wars and military strategies to better be able to aid in the War when given the chance. A week back when his health had improved enough, he had taken to wearing a sword at all times, finding it safer, given his suspicions about Wormtongue. As most noblemen wore swords, most of the palace’s chairs were open in the back, allowing warriors to sit without having to remove their sword. He had barely opened the book before he heard Eowyn’s voice from the hallway. Instinctively he paused his reading and listened, wishing not to eavesdrop but to make certain she was unharmed. He had a bad feeling; for her to speak so loudly he could hear her through the stone walls and the heavy wooden door, something had to be amiss.

“Stay away from me,” Eowyn was saying, her voice strong but filled with anger and irritation. At the words, Faramir tensed, worry filling his heart.

“I ask little, my Lady, only that you are…kinder to me,” Wormtongue replied with obvious lust in his voice.

Faramir had seen the way Wormtongue was lusting after the Lady. Though the man’s looks troubled him, they had been just that, looks, and he knew he had no right to interfere. Besides, he had learnt Eowyn was quite good at taking care of herself verbally, not letting anyone try and subdue her. She had even shown him she could handle a sword when he had accidentally walked in on her practicing. She had feared his scorn for her achievement with the blade, but he had smiled and had told her he had found it impressive. He had never met a woman like her before and she enchanted him. Apparently, he thought darkly, he was not the only one who was enchanted. He didn’t even think about what he was doing when he picked up his walking stick from where he had left it on the floor beside the chair, determined to come to Eowyn’s aid. He put the book back on its shelf as he passed it on the way out of the room. He went out into the hallway and quickly located them.

He walked slowly towards where the two were standing, inches apart, Eowyn’s back pressed up against a stone column. Though she was cornered she did not act the part, but gave Wormtongue an angry and disbelieving look in response to his words.

“I am as kind to you as you deserve. Now, let me pass,” she said icily and tried to force her way past him but he was quicker and forced her back against the column once more. This earned him another deadly glare but nothing else; no hint of fear of any kind.

  
“Recall, my Lady, how easily I got your brother banned. It was for you I did not demand his life,” he warned, his eyes dark.

Eowyn’s eyes shot daggers at him. “Threaten my brother again and I shall have your head, even if I have to claim it myself!” she said furiously.

“Such fire,” Wormtongue said with a leer and stroked her cheek but she angrily tore her face away. He laughed softly before he grew serious, his eyes hardening. “I do enjoy our little games, my Lady, but they are beginning to bore me.” He paused before he added, his expression thoughtful, “Mayhap I should simply have your uncle order you to marry me.”

  
”I would rather marry an Orc!” she hissed.

Just then Faramir reached them and they both turned to look at him, his sudden appearance momentarily freezing them both. He nodded politely at Eowyn as if everything was all right, knowing he had to be careful around Wormtongue since he did seem to hold power over the King. However, what he wanted to do was physically tear Wormtongue away from Eowyn. He took a deep breath and forced his temper under control. When he looked at Wormtongue his eyes were cold as ice. “I swore to Eowyn’s brother I would see her safe. Threaten to make me break that vow and I will recall Rohan and Gondor are no longer allies, and that my allegiance lies with Gondor alone…not you or the commands of your puppet King,” he said evenly, his anger and the severity of the threat shining in his eyes. His left hand rested on his walking stick, but he made no move to hide the way his right hand on his sword handle was tightening.

Wormtongue eyed the young man hatefully before obviously being forced to conclude he was serious in his threat. “That you live still is a mistake I will work hard to correct,” Wormtongue snarled before turning around and walking away, seemingly knowing that in a fight Faramir would easily defeat him, even with his leg not yet completely healed.

Faramir turned from watching Wormtongue’s retreat, to Eowyn, his anger disappearing to be replaced by concern. She had moved away from the column she had been pressed up against, and looked hatefully at Wormtongue’s retreating back. “Are you unharmed?” he asked.

Her eyes went to him and her features softened. She gave a small smile. “I am well. Thank you,” she said, and they begun to walk back towards the library side by side. “I do, however, not need protection. I can take care of myself,” she said, a hint of defiance in her words.

He stopped, forcing her to do likewise. His eyes were soft as he looked at her and he had to force himself not to stroke a renegade lock of her long blond hair back behind her ear. “I know, yet why should you?”

She did not know what to say so she resumed walking and he did as well. “How is your wound?” she asked, searching for more secure ground, as if afraid of the emotions his kind words and gestures were awaking in her.

“It has healed well. Thank you, milady. You are an excellent healer,” Faramir said, knowing she was changing the subject on purpose and not sure why; it could mean she was feeling nothing for him or was feeling something but was afraid to admit it. He hesitated before he went on, his tone and face serious. “I will leave soon. Within a day or two.”

  
She stopped in surprise and shock, forcing him to a halt beside her. She turned to face him, her face revealing too many different emotions for him to gain any kind of information from it. “You will return to your friends?” He had briefly told her of the Fellowship and their mission. Though he trusted her completely he had not revealed Aragorn’s true inheritance when he had spoken of him, finding it neither the time nor place to do so.

  
“They search for the Hobbits I told you about, friends of mine also. I cannot leave my friends in peril. I have stayed longer than I needed, than I should, as it is,” he explained softly, though he did not wish to go. Not now. Or more correctly - he did not wish to leave her, which was why he had postponed his departure well after his wound had healed enough to make him capable of leaving.

“I shall miss you,” she admitted softly, avoiding his eyes as she spoke. She had known he would not remain long, yet hadn’t wanted to think of the day when he would leave. Her heart felt heavy at the thought of letting him go, and the strength of her own sadness surprised her.

He reached out a hand to softly stroke her cheek. “I will carry you with me in my…memories,” he ended, wanting to have said heart but she had not given any indication she had feelings in that direction. He suddenly wished his brother, Aragorn, Legolas or anyone else he trusted, were here so he could seek advice. He mentally shook his head. No. He was fooling himself. What would a lady of such grace and strength as Eowyn wish with him? His father was right about him; he was not worthy of such a fine woman as this one.

“I…You…,” she started to say, not sure what she would have said then, only knowing she could not let him leave like this.

A sudden pain hit Faramir, making her words remain unsaid. “Ahhh!” he screamed in agony as his skull felt like it would explode. He felt his face twist with the strain of trying to control the waves of pain washing over him. Instinctively he held his hands to his head in an age-old gesture of protection. To do so he had to let go of his walking stick, and it hit the floor with a loud noise. Overwhelmed by the waves upon waves of pain that hit his soul, he was forced to his knees on the floor. What was happening to him? He feared it was the Ring, for only its nearness had brought him such anguish. Yet the Ring should not be anywhere near Edoras.

“Faramir!” Eowyn shouted, sounding terrified, her voice panicked. She considered if she should call a healer yet she didn’t wish to leave him alone. She kneeled down beside him, laying a hand on his back. She tried to see his face as it seemed to be where he felt the worst pain, but he was hiding his face in his hands, moaning from the pain. She looked frantically around but still could not identify the source of his pain. 

A series of images, feelings, flashed through Faramir’s mind, moving so fast he felt dizzy, and then, suddenly, mercifully, the pain and the images stopped, leaving him fighting for breath. He removed his hands from his face and tried to regain his composure, and keep his hold on the reality the pain had almost managed to make him lose.

“Are you hurt?” Eowyn asked, sounding worried, moving a little so she could see his face. The strain from the pain was visible there and droplets of sweat were on his forehead. However, his eyes were clear and began to take on a determined and grim expression, though he didn’t seem to focus on her but as if he was seeing something far away. She moved her hand from his back to his arm, feeling more at ease now that he had stopped moaning, as if whatever invisible enemy he had fought had been defeated…at least for now. “I shall call someone to help you to your room.”

Faramir’s hand shot out and got a strong grip around her wrist, preventing her from rising to do as she had said she would. “No, help me to my feet,” he asked breathlessly.

She nodded and did so, picking up his walking stick so he could lean on it as well. When he was back on his feet he took a deep breath and drew back from her, standing on his own once more. Exhaustion after the painful attack made him lean more on his walking stick than he had before.

“Come, sit down,” she said softly. She gently guided him to the nearest chair; it stood up against the wall in the hallway, normally used only for decorative purposes. He gratefully sat down and she stood before him, eyeing him worryingly.

“I…I saw images. Of things to come,” he told her shakily. Only now, after the pain had faded, was he able to recall the images he had seen and the pictures they painted were terrifying. With his right hand he massaged his temple in an attempt to make the residue of the pain fade away quicker.

“A vision?” she asked.

Faramir nodded grimly. “I believe so. I have never before received a vision when awake though,” he said with some puzzlement in his voice.

“The One Ring of power has never been found before; Sauron has never been so strong before. If the vision is connected to the War, to this growing evil, could it not be possible these elements are to blame?” she asked insightfully.

Faramir nodded, considering her words. “It seems likely. Gandalf and Lord Elrond both mentioned to me I had a connection to Sauron; that my soul would feel the evil the Darkness does; hence the pain I could feel through the Ring. They mentioned few beings, and even fewer mortals suffer in this manner, and normally when removed as far away as possible from Mordor, or the Ring, the pain will lessen or completely stop.” He fell silent for a moment before he added thoughtfully, “My soul may have bared me to the pain of Sauron’s Darkness, yet my ability to receive visions may have enabled me through the pain, the connection, also receive impressions, images, from the Darkness.”

She nodded. “It seems likely. It would also explain why the Dark Lord wishes you dead; he knows only you have a soul that offers you pain from his evil yet it is also combined with the unique ability to receive visions,” she said seriously. Faramir had explained how he had become wounded and the words his would have been killer had said. She seemed convinced this was somehow connected to that.

“Could be,” Faramir agreed.

They shared a moment of thoughtful silence. “What did you see?” she then asked anxiously.

“A fortress.” He thought for a while, briefly closing his eyes to focus on the images he had seen in his mind’s eye, before he went on, looking at her. “It was Helm’s Deep. I recall it from when you showed it to Boromir and I when we visited Rohan as children,” Faramir explained. He frowned and put his walking stick up against the wall behind him so he could take both hands to his temples in a gesture to help him concentrate on what he had seen. He had to fight to recall all the information, all the images, that had flashed past his inner eye faster than Legolas could put an arrow to his bow. The pain was gone now but the ordeal had left him exhausted, and he longed to take rest, but it would have to wait. This was important. He knew it.

“Helm’s Deep would be a last defence,” she frowned, not liking that thought.

“Death will be there. So much death,” he whispered, pained, recalling the images and wincing in sympathy.

“Can we prevent it?” she asked hopefully, though it looked like ice had claimed her heart at the thought of her country and her countrymen in such peril.

“Yes…yes, we can,” he said slowly, first realizing this now. A plan was slowly starting to take shape in his mind. He got a hold of his walking stick and started to rise. She reached out a hand to help him up but he shook his head, caught up in this new realization and the great importance he was beginning to see it was. If he played his cards right this could change the whole outcome of the War…at least for Rohan. “I saw the movements of Saruman’s Orcs, the Orcs which will attack here. If we attack first…they will be unaware,” he said as he stood before her and looked at her, an eager and triumphant look in his eyes. They could do this; they had to do this.

“Rohan’s army is shattered. It will take time to gather all men and what we have here will not be enough,” Eowyn said with a frown, seeming eager to help in any way if it meant the possibility of preventing suffering for her people.

He wondered if she expected him to tell her to be quiet and not interfere in war business as it was not thought a woman’s place to do so. To her obvious pleasant surprise, he nodded agreement, having considered her statement. “I agree. In my vision I saw Elves. They came to our aid at Helm’s Deep, many dying in the battle. If they came then, they will come now,” Faramir said confidently, his faith in the valour and grandeur of the Elven race having never faded through all the years.

“My uncle will never agree to send for aid or send riders out for raids based on your vision alone,” Eowyn admitted regretfully, not mentioning that it was unlikely her uncle would do anything at all unless Wormtongue encouraged it.

“Yet you believe the value of my word?” he asked intensely, his eyes piercing into hers. He needed her to believe in him. He had too many discouraging words his father had said to him echoing in his mind. He needed her to believe his vision was true, and that he was able to prevent it. He could not do this without having that assurance.

“Yes, I do. I have heard rumours of your gift of vision and I have faith in your judgement. I cannot explain it but I do believe you,” she said seriously, her voice certain and her eyes encouraging. She had never doubted him; even when they had met as children she had never doubted he was capable and honest. Despite the favouritism she had seen the Steward play towards his oldest son, her favourite of the brothers had always been Faramir thanks to his kind nature and open heart.

He smiled warmly, moved by her words. “Thank you,” he said sincerely and their eyes met, both unaware of the soft smiles that curved their lips as they gazed into each other’s eyes.

The moment was broken when Faramir’s thoughts returned to the situation at hand. His smile faded as his attention was back at the enormous task he had talked himself into. “I believe this vision may have come to me, at this time, due to the poison I fought. For a long time I had Sauron’s darkness racing through my blood. This may have been the trigger,” Faramir thought out loud, thinking of Frodo and the dark connection his own wound had given him. This would mean that if the Dark Lord had not sent his henchmen to kill him he might never have received this vision, and thus would likely never have become a noticeable threat to Sauron and his plans. Fate was not without irony.

“The poison went deep. None believed you would live but me,” Eowyn revealed, her expression grave as she nodded in agreement to his explanation. That first day after Faramir had arrived in Edoras and had fought for survival had been one of the longest days of her life; she had been sick with worry, but had been determined that he should live. She had not given up on him then and she would not do so now. 

“Then, mayhap, it was your…faith and care and not herbs that brought me healing,” Faramir said softly, his eyes warm on her. .

She smiled shyly for a moment. Then she sobered. “You would know if you were sent a false vision, would you not?” she asked a bit fearfully. If Rohan’s future was at stake, they could not afford to play into their enemy’s hands.

Faramir considered this for a few moments before he nodded, his expression certain. “The feelings were real. The images therefore had to be as well.”

She nodded, obviously relieved he had considered her words and not been angered at her for suggesting it. “Very well.” She paused before she suggested without much hope in her voice. “I can try and speak with my uncle on this matter.”

“Nay. It would do no good. He is under Wormtongue’s spell.” Faramir fell silent, thinking. “Will you help me do this, without your uncle’s aid?” he asked seriously, looking deeply into her eyes. Alone, he would never succeed. He needed her…in more ways than one.

“Foregoing the King is treason,” she said but it was a statement of fact only, her face and eyes betrayed she was considering his words, having known for a while that her uncle was not well.

“Yet not treason towards Rohan and her people, for it would be out of love and loyalty to them that you would be acting,” Faramir said, trying to convince her though it was with a hint of sadness. He knew he was asking a lot. He was not sure if he would have been able to do likewise had she come to him and asked this of him in regard to his father. “It will be dangerous but we have to do something. I would not ask you to risk so much if I did not know you had the strength to do so,” Faramir added in a warm and certain tone. Somehow he knew she would be strong enough to do what needed to be done; she was no fool and knew there was no other option open to them. 

She looked at him in surprise and pleasure. “Thank you.” It was apparent she had considered his words and found truth in them; for her country and people she would risk everything. After a few seconds she added, her voice strong and certain, her expression grim, “What do you wish me to do?”

  
Faramir gave a small, relieved smile at hearing her consent. Then he said seriously, “Can you send a rider to Rivendell carrying a letter from me? I would not know whom to trust and my Gondorian seal would not get me far.”

She nodded thoughtfully, as if already thinking of a way to get this done. “I can.”

“Come then, I shall write the letter at once. When it is sent, I will need a dozen or so commanders you trust to follow my orders through you. They will be given the current whereabouts of Saruman’s Orc army,” Faramir said as he walked purposely towards the chamber Eowyn had assigned to him since he had arrived badly injured at her doorstep.

“It will not be easy to ask these men to betray their King,” she warned as she followed him down the hallway. Despite the danger in her situation she was obviously relieved to be doing something, to be able to help.

“Not betray…forego. To save Rohan, they must do this. Surely they know the King is not himself,” Faramir said, his voice and eyes urgent.

She nodded though her eyes seemed to show a certain hesitation as to whether all would also find truth in Faramir’s argument. “I will see to it,” she vowed.

He smiled gratefully before he said, “Good. While you search for these men I shall try and formulate a battle strategy. My brother is best at these kind of things, yet this kind of warfare is for rangers and for this…I am well suited.”

They reached his chamber and he let her enter first, holding the door open for her before he closed the door behind them. He went to his desk and sat down, putting his walking stick beside the desk. He took up a pen and was about to put it to paper when she put a hand on his arm, stopping him. He looked up at her, surprised, and had to tell himself to remember how to breathe when he saw the warmth and gratitude in her eyes.

“Thank you for believing in me,” she said softly.

He smiled fondly. “Thank you for doing the same with me.”

  
She hesitated but then said, “You are not like other men.” He had included her in his plans as naturally as breathing. He believed in her skills, intelligence and strength. He was a remarkable man. Again she felt her stomach twinge strangely, and a pleasant warmth spread through her body as she thought of him. 

  
”Nor are you like other women. Do you truly believe that makes us wrong?” he asked softly, voicing a thought that had often plagued him.

She smiled shyly and removed her hand from him. “No. No, I do not,” she said, and he smiled back, warmth and happiness at her reply shining in his eyes.

They had been together almost every day since he had arrived yet it was in this moment, surrounded by danger, about to commit an act of treason for which they could lose their lives…it was now they felt a connection greater than ever before. Despite the danger and their nervousness, their purpose and unity in their dangerous endeavour gave them strength.


	24. Schemes Of War And Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eowyn and Faramir work together in secret to do what they believe to be the right thing.

## Schemes Of War And Love

Four weeks had passed since Eowyn had helped Faramir sent a rider to Rivendell, and they had started what was to become a very complex and stressful scheme. Though Faramir had feared for Eowyn’s safety, he had never doubted her tenacity or strength. His faith had proven to be more than justified when their impulsive and daring plan began to take flight. When they had decided to do this, they had never realised how elaborate a scheme they were getting into. Now, caught up in it, they had no other choice but to dig themselves even deeper into the web of lies, secrecy, and deceit they were weaving. Though despite the stress and strain of it all, as time passed, Faramir and Eowyn had fallen into a routine, and a close bond had been created between them.

“Today’s reports have arrived,” Eowyn said when she entered Faramir’s chamber with a leather pouch in her hands. She carefully looked left and right down the hallway before she closed the door to make sure she had not been followed. Faramir’s sleeping quarters doubled as his study, and it was the only place where they dared speak freely about their plot.

At the sound of her voice Faramir turned his attention away from the map he had been studying, and looked up at her. He ran a hand through his hair and could feel he had not slept since yesterday; it was now past midday. He had been caught up in formulating a plan of attack for the warriors they had out battling Orcs to the north of the city. He had needed to finish it before a rider had been sent out this morning with orders to give the plan to the officer in charge. His walking stick leaned against his desk. His wound was now healed, and he used it only to not overburden his leg and to appear weaker than he was so he had an official reason for staying on in Edoras.

Faramir pushed himself a little away from his desk, and the mess of letters, maps and other papers he had lying there, focusing on her. “Go through them for me, please.”

Going through any incoming reports with him was one of things that had become a ritual for them. She laid the reports in a stack on his desk, putting the now empty pouch on the floor, letting it rest against one of the legs of his desk. She gave him a worried look. “You look tired. Have you slept at all?” She was often the one who would remind him to take a break, take a walk in the gardens outside, eat, and sleep. They had developed a comfortable routine, and at times it felt as if they had always worked together; so naturally had they fallen into their roles of taking care of and supporting each other.

“I will as soon as there is time,” he replied, and then gave her a warm but concerned look, “It is you I worry for. You not only have to organize all this, you also need to distract Wormtongue.”

She laughed, allowing him to change the subject. “He is easily distracted.”

“Mayhap not for long. He is getting suspicious,” Faramir said, worried. Wormtongue was, sadly, not stupid. He was starting to question Faramir’s slow recovery and the motives for him staying behind. “Please, be cautious.”

She nodded, sobering at once. They were playing a very dangerous game with more than their own lives at stake; the lives of everyone she had gotten involved, as well as the fate of Rohan, and perhaps even Middle Earth itself, hanging in the balance. “I will.”

He hesitated but then added regretfully, “I wish you did not have to be involved in this.” He wished he could protect her, and ensure she never had to face the cruel realities of war. Yet he also knew it wasn’t possible. He could not even spare her involvement in this daring scheme of theirs; her help was crucial.

“I am honoured you trust me to be, and I wish to be, more than I can explain,” she said sincerely. He trusted her to be able to help; he trusted she had the strength and courage to do so. That knowledge warmed her heart and made her determined not to betray his trust. 

Their eyes met and he had to fight an urge to touch her. To distract himself, he fiddled with the pen in his hand. “The reports…” he reminded her softly as she remained standing, looking warmly at him.

“Oh,” she blushed but then pulled herself together, getting down to the issue at hand at once. “Shall I summarize?”

Faramir nodded. This was how they most often went through the reports that had come in. “Yes. I shall read them in detail later.”

“Very well.” She took the first paper, broke the Rohir seal on it and quickly let her eyes run over it. “The patrol to the east has found the convoy of Orcs you sent them after. They have been successful in a series of surprise attacks but the Orcs counted close to 2000 to begin with.” She looked up as she had reached the end of the document. “The captain requests more troops.”

Faramir studied the map before him where he had drawn in troop movements for Rohan, as well as where he in his vision had seen the various groups of Orcs which would gather to form the impressive attack force at Helm’s Deep. An attack force they were now trying to thin and hopefully destroy all together, before the Orcs could force them on the defence. “For now he need not kill them all; they need just be removed from the scene of battle…be lured away,” Faramir said thoughtfully. He turned his attention from the map to her. “Can you arrange to have more troops given to him without causing suspicion?”

Eowyn considered it. While she trusted her contacts in the army it was only because she had falsified her brother’s signature on the orders she brought them that they followed them. She had deliberately chosen men she knew were personal friends or brothers in arms to Eomer. She did not wish to admit to Faramir that they would not listen to her or believe her word alone on orders of this kind. Nor would she like to tell him that his word would not have been good enough either. Her scheme had worked well so far. However, Faramir was right; Wormtongue was indeed becoming suspicious and troop movements did not go unnoticed forever, even here where news travelled slowly.

“In my brother’s name I should be able to free 400 troops,” she finally said. It was not a lot but even this much would be risky. Yet for the safety of her people and her nation no risk was too great.

Faramir nodded approval. For guerrilla warfare, which was the only option open to them with small groups of warriors against large bands of Orcs, even small numbers could turn the tide. “Then so shall it be.”

She nodded, mentally reminding herself of his order. She put the document she had just read back on the table, making a new stack. She picked up the next document and quickly scanned it. “The troops have still not seen any signs of the remaining members of the Fellowship or the Hobbits,” she summarized, looking up from the paper as she spoke.

Faramir waved a hand to indicate she should take the next report. “No news in these times is often good news,” he said, feverishly praying it was true in this case. He had been so busy arranging Rohan’s defence he had only been able to spare a few worried thoughts towards his brother and friends once in a while. Keeping busy might not be a bad thing though as he knew his worrying would aid no one. 

She nodded agreement to his assessment before she laid the report down and picked up another. “The rider you sent to Gondor to update your brother has been found dead.”

Faramir briefly closed his eyes in sympathy. He had sent that rider on his way and now he had to carry the burden of his death. He had sent people to their deaths before but it was never easy to live with. “We sadly knew this was a possibility with so many Orc patrols out.”

  
”The arrow that killed him…it was mortal. The design betrayed it was from Rohan or Gondor,” Eowyn revealed in horror, looking up from the letter in shock.

“What?” Faramir asked in surprise and disbelief as he sat up straighter in his chair. “How can this be?”

“Since it was Gondor who broke the alliance between our two nations…” Eowyn began with a frown, obviously knowing where she would place the blame but not wishing to hurt his feelings, knowing how deeply he loved his nation.

“It could have been both sides,” Faramir said solemnly though he knew it most likely the fault was Gondor’s. While he loved his nation, he was not so blinded as to believe She was without error, past and present. However, if news of this came out the Rohan warriors might be distracted enough to consider Gondor a threat, mayhap even reserve resources should She attack, just when they needed a unified front against Sauron. They could not afford to be divided further. They were fighting on too many fronts as it was. 

“This news must stay between us. Send an order to the commander and swear him and his men to silence,” he ordered, frowning in concern not only for them but also for his brother because he was certain a command to kill messengers was not his…and if it was his brother would be lost to him, fallen into shadow. It was a fear, a thought, he dared not even complete. Most wounds could heal, but the darkness that stained a man’s soul could rarely be washed away.

“I will.” She paused before she added more gently, seeing the worry in his eyes, “This commander is a good man; he will not have spoken of this to anyone. He knows the stakes are too high to play such a game.”

Faramir took a deep relieved breath, pushing his concern for his brother to the back of his mind for now. He smiled gratefully at her in thanks before he asked, “Anything else?”

There were no more reports left on his desk, but she still had more news and sadly it wasn’t good. “Yes, wounded are beginning to arrive in Edoras from the battles you have initiated. The Houses of Healing are filling up too fast for the small number of troops you command here in the city to be able to shield this from the eyes of the King,” she said gravely. Of course what she really meant was that it could no longer be kept hidden from Wormtongue and his followers.

“Our secret is coming undone,” Faramir mumbled darkly with concern in his voice. He had known from the beginning time would work against them, and even if they managed never to get caught time, itself would end up revealing their secret to the world. Still, he had hoped for more time before it became such a pressing issue. Despite their small number they had largely been successful in their attacks, yet there was still a lot of work to be done; they needed time and assistance if they were to succeed. Hopefully help from the Elves would arrive before their secret unravelled completely.

“When questioned on this matter earlier by my uncle, I said it was simply the Orcs growing bolder and requested the return of my brother to help in Rohan’s defence. Wormtongue did not believe this to be so and even had the nerve to say my brother was behind the attacks,” Eowyn said, sounding concerned, with anger and disgust in her voice. Wormtongue had whispered foul lies in her uncle’s ear and sadly he seemed unable to resist them.

“Has anyone suspected these orders do not come from your brother?” Faramir asked worriedly and she gave him a surprised look. Though she had told him some of the orders had been sent in her brother’s name, she had not said she had had to send them all under his seal. Faramir caught her hand in his and smiled warmly at her. “Justified or not, I know how the chain of command works. I knew my seal would not get me far here and I knew yours would not help either.” He noticed the way she stiffened at this, clearly upset that no one would listen to her for her own sake. He added, his voice full of understanding, “At home everyone save my rangers would question orders signed by me but never my brother.”

She blushed and looked down, but to his joy she did not try and pull back her hand but kept it securely inside his. “I am sorry I did not tell you.”

“I know why you did not yet I am saddened you would think it would matter to me why it works, as long as we get the job done, and Rohan and Her people are safe. I could never think less of you.” He had hoped she would think better of him by now; would know he was not like that. To him, her opinion did matter, in matters of war as well as in anything else. He would never disregard her advice simply because she was a woman. 

She was stunned into silence by his words and felt a wave of heat rise up in her cheeks. She wished to explain, to take the sadness from his eyes, feeling guilty knowing she had put it there, but her throat was dry and words were escaping her so she said nothing.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and smiled a little sadly before he released his hold on her. He returned his attention to the matter at hand. “Is this all for now?”

“No. Commander Trian, whom I approached yesterday, is ill at ease with what was suggested and wishes to bring the matter to the King,” she replied, glad that the conversation was back to subjects with which she felt emotionally safe. The strong emotions she was beginning to develop towards Faramir were starting to frighten her. 

Faramir frowned, not liking the sound of that. Bringing the matter to the King would mean bringing it to Wormtongue. “Has he done so yet?”

“No.”

He knew what the logical thing to do was, the safe thing to do. He knew Boromir would have known just the right way to do this, that he would have sacrificed whomever needed to be sacrificed to keep the country, the people safe. Yet, as he had been painfully made aware of all his life, he was not his brother. “Is there a chamber somewhere in this palace which lies isolated and remote, where no one will hear the sound of human voices?” he asked thoughtfully, coming up with a plan he could live with.

“Yes. There is a tower…” she began but then stopped as she realized what he was thinking, “You wish to trap him in there?” she asked, sounding shocked.

“Yes,” he said seriously.

“For the remainder of the War? You cannot!” she protested. No one knew how long the War would last. Trian was a good man; they couldn’t simply hold him captive!

  
“If he goes to the King, Saruman will hear of it through Wormtongue. He will then move his troops, crush our advantage, and bring death to the people of Rohan,” Faramir explained with certainty though there was sadness over what he was doing clear in his voice. “It is either contain the man…or kill him.”

She fought down her anger and nodded, realizing he was right. “I shall have some of the loyal guards move him to the chamber.”

There was a long stillness until Faramir pushed his chair back and turned it so his whole body was facing her. He ran his hands over his face and briefly rested his face in his hands, his elbows on his knees, before he lifted his head and looked up at her. “Am I in the wrong here?” he asked softly, agonized, letting show the doubt he normally fought so hard to keep locked up inside. Years of being told he was worthless, that he was always making mistakes, were hard to outrun when he had neither his brother’s nor Aragorn’s voice to lead him on. “I am not meant to be a leader of men, to dictate the outcome of war…I am no longer sure of where I saw the Orcs in my vision…How many there were.”

She knelt before him and laid her hands over his, looking him in the eyes. “Hush,” she said softly, kindly, her eyes filled with warmth. “What you saw you have told me…I shall help you remember.”

“Thank you,” he said heartfelt, encouraged by the warm emotions he saw reflected in her eyes.

Suddenly, as if overwhelmed by kindness and compassion, she reached up a hand and softly stroked some hair back behind his ear. “You are the man meant to help us…help me. I have faith in you,” she said huskily.

He shook his head. “You should not. I let people down,” he said sadly with a grimace, his father’s words echoing in his mind.

“I know not many save your brother have said this, but it is true; you are a great man,” she said, her voice heartfelt and filled with certainty.

He smiled fondly, feeling warmth spread through his body, her kindness and faith lifting him up and giving him the strength to keep going. “I could get so lost in you and yet never desire to search for a way back,” he said hoarsely as he reached out a hand and cupped her face. His heart was starting to beat faster in his chest as his entire body longed to touch her, taste her, let her know how much he adored her and how hard it was for him to see her every day, being so near yet so endlessly far away from her. The moment was alive with energy, her eyes were warm on him, her lips slightly parted and inviting. Slowly he leant forward, his lips inches from hers, hopefully searching.

Suddenly she drew back and rose. “I will…go carry out your latest orders,” she mumbled with a blush, not sure why her voice was so shaky, why she was blushing, why her heart was beating so fast.

Faramir leaned back in his chair, a feeling of loss in his heart as he watched her retreat. “Eowyn,” he said softly as she was at the door, her hand on the handle. She stopped but did not turn around to face him, sure her face would reveal more than she dared to show if she did. “You may hide behind protocol for now, yet remember I see you as my equal with strengths and weaknesses as any other. That you have become a weakness of mine, a weakness I never wish to be rid of, I pray you will consider when you walk these halls alone.”

Eowyn said nothing but simply left, closing the door softly, almost thoughtfully, behind her. Faramir looked at the closed door for some time before he rose. He carefully hid all the documents on his desk, before he took his walking stick and went to get some air to calm his heart and ease his soul. While out he decided to go visit the wounded in some of the Houses of Healing, to see if he could offer assistance and comfort. Maybe, through this act of sympathy and compassion, he could let go of just a little of his burden of loss and guilt.


	25. Uncovering The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir and Eowyn's scheme is discovered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter for this week's last big update. I hope someone enjoys it in these hard times.  
> If you liked it then I would love it if you left kudos and a comment. It would make my day so please do consider it; even just an emoji. Thank you. :)

## Uncovering The Truth

It had been eight weeks since Faramir and Eowyn had started their daring scheme. Wounded and dead were still being taken to Edoras. The battles were becoming strained. They needed the Elves now, but they had still not received any letters from Rivendell. They needed the entire Rohir army with them and they needed assistance from afar. However, after the tragedy with the other rider Faramir had not dared to send for Gondor a second time. There was nothing left to do but keep pushing forward and hope help was on the way.

“Were you summoned before the King as well?” Faramir softly asked Eowyn as she joined him in the hallway leading to the King’s throne room. A guard had knocked on his chamber door and informed him the King requested his presence immediately. When he had left Faramir had sat back with an uneasy feeling. He had not been before the King since he had first arrived, and could only come to one conclusion as to why he would be summoned now. Acting on instinct, he had worn his sword and had left his walking stick behind. He did not need it anymore and had only used it to pretend he was still too weak to travel. Unable to kill the bad feeling he had, he had burned all the documents in his room except the map indicating troop movements; they would need it in case his worst fears were not confirmed. Deep down, both he and Eowyn had known their scheme would be discovered; there were far too many factors out of their control. There were far too many who were not with them. They had not spent a lot of time thinking about this though. Life had become hectic and the one goal, to keep Rohan safe, had pushed all other concerns to the backs of their minds. It seemed likely time was running out for them.

She nodded, seemingly as concerned as him by this order they had been given. A guard had found her in the library, where she had quickly and successfully pretended not to be looking for a more detailed map of the southern areas for Faramir. She too had been requested to come before the King at once. As the King’s niece she would be protected a long way and could always fake innocence; few would believe a woman capable of being a part of such an elaborate plot as this. However, that left Faramir. Had her uncle been himself, none of this would have been necessary, and she would not have worried as much as she did now. As they kept walking steadily onward, her only concern was for him and all her silent prayers were for his safety. She feverishly hoped by some miracle her suspicion- that they had been discovered, would be proved false. “Yes.”

“Something has happened,” he said, worried. It was not a question; her face gave away that something was amiss. They had become so attuned to each other in their weeks together that she didn’t need to say anything; he could read her mood from her facial expressions, eyes, and body language.

“I was just informed that the couriers coming in last night were intercepted by the palace guard, the letters brought to the King. I was on the way to tell you after I located the map you asked for. Possibly someone has betrayed us,” she explained, speaking softly as she eyed the corridor to make certain it was empty.

They both began to walk slower, giving them more time to prepare before they reached the throne room.

They had been discovered. There was no longer any doubt. Faramir felt a strange calm settle over him; the uncertainty was over. “Has Wormtongue left or sent a courier to Saruman?”

“Not yet.”

“That cannot happen,” Faramir said with certainty. If it did, all was lost. As long as Saruman was in the unknown they had a chance of fighting back, of winning. Rohan’s safety was all that mattered. 

Eowyn nodded grimly; she had come to the same conclusion. “I took the liberty of giving one last order on your behalf; that the guards loyal to Eomer should detain any messenger Wormtongue sends…or himself if he rides.”

Faramir smiled, proud at her ingenuity. “Good thinking.” He paused as his thoughts grew darker, and his smile faded. Though Saruman had not been alerted then this was still worse than he had feared. “It will merely delay the inevitable and kill the guards who do obey the order, but it is all we can do. We have to stall for time as long as possible,” Faramir agreed, his heart heavy at the very thought of more death and destruction. He knew this was most likely the end for him; it would be hard for him to talk his way out of this with Wormtongue having been itching to find a way to get rid of him since he had interrupted him and Eowyn in the hallway. He just hoped she would be able to escape all this unharmed. However, regardless of what was to happen, he needed to express just a little of what he was feeling for her. He smiled gently at her, the depth of his emotions for her reflected in his eyes, as he said warmly, “I am lucky to have had such a talented assistant in all this.”

She smiled affectionately and blushed, moved by his words as well as the unspoken feelings that vibrated between them. “Thank you.”

“Do we know what reports the couriers were bringing?” Faramir asked, concerned, changing the subject to break the mood before he would forget himself and act on his desire to touch her, hold her…kiss her. His eyes turned from her to watch where he was going; it was easier to hide his emotions from her when his eyes were not looking at her.

She forced her attention back to the matter at hand and tried not to think of him, look at him…worry for him. “All the reports from the Eastern troops as well as short reports on the Orcs’ movements… and the latest figures over losses,” she replied. The routine they had created meant she knew when she could expect which reports.

“In short they have everything,” Faramir said grimly. It would be hard to find a reliable lie to save them now. Yet he would have to try something; they had done what they could for Rohan. Now all that mattered was Eowyn’s safety.

She nodded, concern for him in her eyes. “All bearing Eomer’s signature,” she reminded him hopefully. His brother would be able to clear his name when all this was over; right now the most important thing was saving Faramir. She feared his noble title might not be enough to save him; not with a man like Wormtongue who had no honour.

“Even Wormtongue will not believe it possible for an exiled Marshal to arrange for such control over Rohan’s warriors. Most of all, he will never believe your brother would choose his base of operations to be the palace he has been banned from,” Faramir said with a grimace. Once more he was saddened that while Wormtongue was a deceiving and annoying creature, he was not stupid.

“What is your plan?” she asked softly so the guards would not overhear, as they reached the double door to the throne room, stopping right before it. She turned to face him, ready to follow his lead on this.

He gave her a fond look filled with affection. “Keeping you safe.”

His reply and soft look took her breath away and made her want to both cry and smile. Before she could reply the guards opened the doors to the throne room for them and they walked in. The room was large and impressive. It had two doors, one large double door leading outside and the smaller double door entrance from the palace they had just entered from. The King sat in the furthest end of the large room on his throne, Wormtongue stood right behind him, one hand on the King’s shoulder, and holding a document of some kind in the other. The King’s eyes were dead and empty, and his face seemed expressionless. Wormtongue, on the other hand, looked smug and superior, his eyes shining hate and contempt at Faramir, and lust when they settled on Eowyn. There were several noblemen and guards in the room, but they had all retreated to stand near the walls to give Faramir and Eowyn space.

Their steps echoed in the room, all eyes were on them as Faramir and Eowyn walked across the room. “Your Highness,” Faramir said formally, his voice even and controlled when they stopped a little before the throne. He bowed for him while Eowyn curtsied. They both did a masterful job at hiding their nervousness and the fast beating of their hearts. They looked calm and Faramir even managed to put just a hint of curiosity into his greeting, as if he could not understand why he had been summoned.

“The man plays false even now! Did I not say Gondor could not be trusted?” Wormtongue said, looking at the noblemen and guards gathered in the large throneroom.

Eowyn and Faramir rose and looked straight at the King. “False? I do not know what you mean,” Faramir said, faking shock and putting a hint of resentment at the accusation into his voice. Having Eowyn near gave him strength and helped him look Wormtongue right in the eyes as he said his lie without hesitation, without delay.

“I have here reports,” Wormtongue said with a triumphant gleam in his eyes as he moved closer to Faramir, waving at him with the roll of parchment he had been holding in his hand. It bore Rohan’s seal…broken. “Signs of treason.”

“I have not signed any such documents,” Faramir said truthfully enough since Eowyn had falsified Eomer’s signature on them.

“It may be that cursed Marshal’s name on them, but I am not a fool,” Wormtongue hissed angrily, his eyes becoming two small lines.

“I signed them in his name,” Eowyn said boldly, taking a step forward and ignoring Faramir’s shocked look and vague motion to hold her back. She would not stand by and allow Wormtongue to publicly humiliate Faramir with his accusations. “It is my right with his permission to do so.” True, she had not had his permission, but she knew her brother would have given it to her when he knew the goal was to save Rohan and Her people. In any case it would be hard to prove her words false.

“Our Lady may have many talents,” Wormtongue said for benefit of the gathered noblemen, his eyes, when they went from them back to Eowyn, filled with lust, making Faramir fight the urge to hit him, “but organizing an army I am certain is not one of them.” He paused before he went on, his eyes resting on each of the noblemen in the room in turn. “These orders, these latest attacks which have cost hundreds of our men their lives or limbs, reeks of the mind of a ranger!” Wormtongue declared with disgust, his words clearly designed to gain the support of those others present.

The situation was getting out of hand too quickly; Wormtongue was not backing down now. He was twisting everything around. Eowyn knew she needed to act and act fast, but her options were limited. In desperation she turned to her uncle. “Uncle, please…our people are dying…you must act now,” Eowyn pleaded with him, fearing she knew where this was heading, the very thought of any harm befalling Faramir made a cold hand of dread close around her heart. Yet her uncle didn’t even blink at her pleading words; he simply sat there, like an old puppet, his eyes betraying that he was not really seeing or hearing her.

“Your uncle knows war only brings death,” Wormtongue said darkly, dismissing the mention of the King as unimportant before his eyes came to rest on Faramir and rage lit up his face. Faramir had been a thorn in his side ever since he had discovered how much Eowyn seemed to enjoy his company. “Do you know the punishment for high treason?”

Faramir nodded, refusing to be cowered. He was a son of Gondor; if death was to be his fate for what he had done he would face it with honour. He would make his brother and Aragorn proud. His only regrets were that he would never see the people he loved again, or his beloved homeland. “Death, I presume,” he said calmly, looking Wormtongue in the eyes without blinking as he spoke.

Wormtongue was clearly thrown by his calm and fought to regain control of the situation. “Guards! Take this traitor to the yard and execute him. It is the will of the King,” he insisted, a look of pure murderous fury on his face as he spoke. He went to the King and whispered something in his ear.

“Yes…yes,” the King whispered weakly, his voice worn and tired, his eyes still unfocused.

“No!” Eowyn cried out, and ran to her uncle, kneeling beside his chair, her hands on his nearest knee. Her eyes were pleading as she looked up and into her uncle’s unfocused gaze, her voice thick with emotion. “Uncle, please…I beg of you. He did it for Rohan…to save us. Please.” Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, and terror was written in every line on her face. She could not lose him now, not like this. This wasn’t how this was supposed to end. Not like this!

“You heard the order! Get on with it!” Wormtongue insisted angrily as the guards hesitated at hearing the pleading words of the Lady of Rohan, stopping their approach across the room towards Faramir.

It took only a moment for Faramir to recover from the shock; this was really happening. “I shall not make it that easy for you! You are the true traitor here, servant of Sauron!” Faramir yelled at Wormtongue, spitting the words out like poison as he drew his sword, trying to keep an eye on all the approaching guards at once; no easy task as they were approaching him from all directions. The guards drew swords as well and though they now moved more slowly, carefully, they still kept moving in on him, obviously intent on carrying out the order they had been given.

“Faramir, no!” Eowyn yelled as she saw him engage the twenty or so guards who had surrounded him. There was no way he could win. She turned a tearstained face to her uncle, desperate for a miracle. “Uncle, please! Stop this!”

Still her uncle’s eyes remained dead. She continued to plead with him, more out of desperation than any real hope that he would hear her.

Faramir was managing to hold the guards off, moving with a dancer’s grace and displaying a skilful series of thrusts and blocks. Still, despite his skill and courage he was hopelessly outnumbered. His attention divided, one of the guards attacked and managed to cut him a deep wound on his right arm that started bleeding at once. The blood made his grip slippery and he had to change sword hands. This disadvantage had one of the guards force him backwards; he stumbled and lost his sword which went flying across the throne-room. The guards were on him at once. His hands were forced behind his back, and the strain this put on his injured arm made him grimace in pain, and a small moan escaped his lips. He was forced to his knees, a sword at his throat to keep him from fighting back. As his knees slammed painfully into the stone floor a new moan of pain escaped his lips. A guard’s hand in his hair forced his head up; baring his throat. The guard who forced his head up used his other hand to hold a knife to his throat, clearly not taking any chances after his impressive display of swordsmanship. 

Faramir was fighting to get his heart rate and breathing back under control. Sweat from the fight and from the pain his injured arm brought him, ran down his face. He fought to get both his pain and his fear at having a knife at his throat under control. He would face his fate with honour, as a son of Gondor should. “You see the King is ill. You know Orcs are at your gates. I do not deny my method was questionable, but you forced my hand. What I did, I did for Rohan,” Faramir said sincerely, his eyes sweeping the room in hope just one of them would be swayed; likely not enough to intervene on his behalf but hopefully enough so just one would help continue the fight. Most of the guards and noblemen avoided his gaze, seemingly too uncertain of the truth in his words to meet him head on, likely not wishing his words to be true yet fearing they were.

“Lies of a traitor!” Wormtongue spat, moving quickly to stop any chance of anyone believing him. He went from his place beside the King and slapped Faramir in the face, fury in his eyes.

“Stop it!” Eowyn yelled, unable to sit by and allow Faramir to be manhandled like this. She ran to him and knelt before him in a rush of movement, her dress swinging elegantly around her as if it had a life of its own. She took his face in her hands, her eyes filled with worry as she scanned his face for injury, seeing the beginning redness on his cheek but nothing else. The injury to his arm worried her, and she could see the pain from it in his eyes and face though he fought to hide it. She felt a wave of compassion hit her and she wished she could have spared him this hurt. “Are you unhurt?” She knew he wasn’t, yet needed him to say he was.

  
He nodded, smiling a bit. Strange question for a man about to be executed but somehow it made him feel better to look into her eyes; the feel of her hands on his face made him relax all the way to his soul. She cared for him; her affection was clearly written in her concern, and in her eyes. This knowledge warmed his heart and made him feel strangely at ease. “I am better now that you are here,” he said softly, warmly. For a moment everything but her, her face, voice, care, and essence faded away. Seeing her face as the last thing before he left this world would not be a bad way to die, and he found himself finding a kind of peace with what he knew was to come.

“Get on with it,” Wormtongue snarled to the guards, hate at Faramir clear in his voice as he witnessed the tender moment between them. He tore Eowyn away from Faramir and to her feet with a bruising grip on her arm. She couldn’t help but grimace at the unexpected pain.

The flash of pain across her features made Faramir spring into action, thinking only of seeing her safe. “Get your hands off her!” he roared, fighting to get to his feet, only to have the guard take a crushing grip on his injured arm that had him fight back a scream of pain and see stars before his eyes. As he was forced back to his knees, the guard took a painful grip on Faramir’s hair and pulled his head back and up once more, while he pressed the knife closer to his throat. 

“The King grows weary of hearing his voice. Take him away,” Wormtongue ordered and waved a hand at them with cruel disinterest, certain he had already won. He dragged Eowyn with him towards the throne, her fighting him all the way. Suddenly he stopped and looked back at where a second guard had helped drag Faramir to his feet. He was now being forced to walk towards the door leading outside. The knife had been removed from his throat but two guards held his hands behind his back and one guard walked on either side of him. “And bring me his head. Let that be a warning that none shall disgrace King Theoden of Rohan ever again,” Wormtongue ordered, his eyes shining with unholy joy at the prospect of seeing Faramir dead. Finally there would be no more obstacles for him to claim what were his: this nation and its Lady!

“No!” Eowyn yelled, horror in her voice and she fought even harder to free herself. She put her foot down hard on one of Wormtongue’s and then turned around in his grip, using her free hand to slap his face hard. He released her with a surprised yell. She ignored him completely, her heart, mind, and focus only on Faramir. She ran to him, embracing him and hiding her face and her tears at his shoulder. The embrace was awkward since the guards were still holding him, forcing his arms behind his back, making the wound on his arm throb in agony.

“It will be all right,” he tried to calm her, his voice warm and soothing as he laid his head on top of hers, feeling her tears through his shirt. He drew strength from her nearness, burning this moment, the feel of her, into his heart and soul. His own fear was pushed aside in his desire to ease her pain. 

She drew back and looked up at him with tears and anguish in her eyes. He looked lovingly down at her, wishing he could touch her face.

She put a hand on each side of his face as if she had read his mind, tears running down her cheeks. “How can I let you go now when I have just seen in your eyes all we could have had?” she asked brokenly. Love. They could have had love. She had seen it; she understood it now. What had she been afraid of? Of losing him? She was losing him now, and the loss was all the harder to bear when knowing she had never felt his arms around her.

“Shhh…do not say that,” Faramir said softly, tears falling down his cheeks as well. “It will get better. Everything will get better,” he mumbled, not really sure what he was saying, his soul in turmoil, his heart breaking, focused only on the fact that she had said they could have shared something more…something beautiful.

“I lost Eomer. I let them take him from me,” she whispered, sounding agonized. “I cannot let them take you as well.” A hint of steel came to her eyes and she drew back from him, her hands falling to her sides, making fists, her posture defiant. “And I will not!”

  
“Enough of this,” Wormtongue ordered in a bored voice, having remained where Eowyn had left him. He had observed the exchange with a superior and cruel leer, as if knowing he had won. 

Eowyn gave Faramir one last warm look before her face took on a defiant look. She walked back to Wormtongue with resolute steps, stopping just in front of him. Faramir followed her with his eyes, worry, and a hint of puzzlement written on his face.

“Let him go,” she said calmly. Her mind was made up; she knew what to do.

Wormtongue looked at her in disbelief and amusement. “And why would the King release a traitor?”

  
She moved a step closer, their bodies an inch apart. “Release him…and I shall marry you,” she said evenly, fighting to keep her face and voice impassive though the very thought of what she was saying was repulsive to her. Still, for Faramir’s safety, it was a price she paid gladly.

“NO! You cannot!” Faramir yelled, the mere thought of Wormtongue being anywhere near Eowyn filled him with dread and disgust. His protests were silenced by a blow to the face from one of the guards. The blow split his lip, making him taste blood.

Wormtongue ignored Faramir completely, his whole attention on Eowyn and her tempting offer. “You will wed me willingly? You will come to the marriage bed willingly?” Wormtongue asked with lust shining in his eyes, licking his lips in obvious anticipation.

She had to fight back her repulsion but nodded, promise and certainty in her voice as she spoke. “Release him and I will.”

“Eowyn, no…please,” Faramir mumbled, horrified, fighting to get his breath back from the blow that had added to the pain from the wound in his arm. He could not let her do this!

“It is the only way,” Eowyn said calmly but with a hint of warmth in her voice, yet she was not looking at him but at Wormtongue as she spoke.

“I cannot be free on these conditions,” he protested and was set to argue even further to try and make her understand how agonizing the thought of her sacrificing herself like this was to him. A guard hit him again, this time in the stomach, preventing him from saying anything else.

Eowyn winced in sympathy as she saw the blow, but she kept her full attention on Wormtongue. “Yes, you will,” she insisted, her eyes piercing into Wormtongue’s. Faramir had to be free; he had to live. For Rohan… for her. That was all that mattered.

“He has ruined much for us,” Wormtongue said so softly only she could hear it, his head nodding towards Faramir. Faramir’s plan had been well carried out and had weakened Saruman significantly. If he had gotten the extra troops, Elven troops, as well as the help from the entire Rohir army…he stood a good chance of defeating Saruman, in particular in a surprise attack.

“I shall never come to you in any other way than this,” Eowyn said strongly, letting the truth in her words shine through in her voice and eyes.

Wormtongue looked her up and down, taking in her proud bearing, the defiance in her eyes, and the strength in her gaze. “No, I reckon you would not,” he said softly, a hint of pain in his eyes that disappeared quickly. With determined steps he went to the King and whispered in his ear. Then he stood up straight again and declared for all to hear, “The King feels benevolent today. He will spare the life of the traitor and approves of the marriage between his niece, Lady Eowyn, and myself,” he said with a solemn voice that was filled with victorious satisfaction. In one day he had reached all his goals; the Lady of Rohan would be his, he would be rid of Faramir, and Rohan would fall to Saruman.

Eowyn drew a relieved breath; Faramir was free. A feeling of dread was starting to creep over her at the thought of the price she would have to pay. Still, it was a price she paid gladly. She knew now there was no price she would not pay to ensure Faramir was safe. With his gentle ways, poetic soul, and emotional spirit he had, in a manner of weeks, managed to do what no man ever had before; he had stolen her heart and with it her undying devotion and loyalty. Her love was hard-won but when given it was stronger than iron; it would never give in, break, or weaken.

“Guards, take the traitor and lock him up in the dungeons. It is the order of your King,” Wormtongue went on, waving at the guards to move.

“No!” Eowyn protested, horror written on her face. He was injured; he needed medical attention, a warm bed, and proper food and care. “You said he would be free!”

Wormtongue walked to her and whispered in her ear, ignoring the look of accusation and hate she was sending him, “If he is free what prevents you from breaking your vow to me?”

“I give you my word. My word is as strong a bond to my honour as any man’s,” she said through clenched teeth, enraged at having her integrity questioned by a man who was as deceitful as a man could be.

“I never put much faith in the words or honour of others,” Wormtongue whispered back with a hint of humour and victory in his eyes. “Besides,” he added darkly, seriously, “even if I kept him under surveillance, letting Faramir move around freely would be a threat to the plans my master has for Rohan.” He turned his attention from her to the guards. “Carry out the order.”

Two guards began to drag Faramir away, his arms forced behind his back. Both had a strong grip on him to ensure he did not move them. Four guards moved in to walk with them in case Faramir should manage to get out of the other guards’ hold.

The guards’ grip on him was sending waves of pain through his injured arm, but Faramir ignored it and kept trying to break their hold. Eowyn’s sacrifice had shocked him; more than anything it showed how much she really cared for him and this knowledge warmed him to his very soul. But he couldn’t let her do this; he would not allow her to ruin her life for him. He feverishly prayed he could still make her back out. “Eowyn, do not do this! Promise me you will not!” he yelled, panic and pleading in his voice as he tried to turn around to look at her, but the guards dragged him towards the double doors leading outside and away from her. How could he survive knowing she was suffering for him? Because of him? How was he to live with that knowledge?

“It will be all right,” she whispered softly, her eyes on him encouraging, not sure whom she was trying to calm. At least he was still alive. She would find a way to get him medical attention later.

“Now that we are engaged…I wish my fiancée to stop concerning herself with a lowly prisoner, and kiss me,” Wormtongue demanded harshly, jealousy playing in his eyes as he took a bruising grip on her nearest arm to get her attention.

“Eowyn! Do not!” Faramir yelled, fighting his guards even harder and ignoring the waves of pain that followed, but to no avail; he was still being dragged further away from Eowyn and towards his pending imprisonment.

Eowyn knew Wormtongue’s request was just to pain Faramir and humiliate her. She fought back her anger and rage, knowing due to the bargain she had agreed to, it was a request she could not refuse. “If you wish,” she said sweetly, a dangerous gleam in her eyes which she was sure he didn’t see.

He released his hold on her and looked at her with lust and eagerness. He formed his lips to a kiss only to have her kiss his cheek instead. “Clever, my Lady,” he mumbled darkly as she drew back. He caught her nearest wrist in a bruising grip, making her look him in the eyes, her own lips drawn into a stubborn line. “Do not let it become a habit though.”

  
Her eyes gleamed in anger as she tore her wrist free. ”Believe me, kissing you shall never be a habit of mine,” she sneered.

“I can see I shall have to teach you some manners and the proper place of a future bride. I am sure I shall enjoy doing so,” Wormtongue said darkly, looking her over in a manner that did not even try to hide what he was hinting at.

“Lay hand on her and I swear I will kill you!” Faramir raged as he managed to slow down the guards, but his desperate struggles were not enough to break their hold on him. The guards were about to open the large double doors when suddenly they were opened from the outside and a man entered with determined steps, looking like he had travelled long and fought hard. 

“Aragorn!” Faramir breathed in relief and happiness when he saw he was well; bruised, tired, and dirty but well. Aragorn would know what to do; he would find a solution to the predicament he found himself in, and he had never been too proud to ask for help when he needed it. With relief and joy, he spotted Legolas and Gimli behind Aragorn as they entered the throne room as well, both looking fit and healthy. Behind them another figure appeared, and it took a second or two for Faramir to believe his eyes.

“Gandalf! You have returned!” Faramir yelled happily, though he was profoundly shocked. In his joy he forgot his physical and emotional distress as his face lit up in a large smile.

“What madness is this?” Gandalf asked sharply as the four people who had entered looked around at the scene before them.

They took in the two guards holding Faramir’s hands behind his back, the other guards standing close by. They saw the quiet noblemen standing in the corners of the room, Eowyn and Wormtongue standing before the King’s throne, and finally, at the end of the room, the King himself. Everyone seemed to have frozen to the spot, unsure of how to handle the intrusion. Everyone’s eyes were on the four newcomers.

Aragorn turned his attention to the guards holding Faramir. His healer’s eyes noticed his sweaty brow and the blood on his arm with worry. Meanwhile Gandalf walked towards the King. “Unhand this man, at once,” Aragorn demanded in a calm but deadly tone, the hand on his sword tightening, his full attention on the guards holding Faramir.

“He has been judged a traitor,” one of the guards protested. Before he could say anything more he had Aragorn’s sword at his throat.

“Speak ill of him again and the words shall be your last,” Aragorn vowed coldly, at which words, Faramir shot him a warm and grateful look.

Legolas came up on Aragorn’s right, aiming an arrow at one of the other guards, Gimli on Aragorn’s left, raising his axe for an attack. “My bond brother speaks true. Unhand the Steward’s son,” Legolas said calmly. The guard he was aiming at made a motion towards his sword. “Do not draw arms. I shall have you and two of your friends dead on the floor before the movement is halfway,” Legolas warned with deadly promise in his voice.

The guard froze at Legolas’ words, as did all the others. However the two guards who held Faramir’s arms behind his back kept a strong grip on him, unsure of what was true and what was fable in regard to Elves.

“Unhand him. Now!” Aragorn demanded harshly when the guards did not draw back. At his sharp command the guards drew away from Faramir, obviously frightened by the certain promise of death in Aragorn’ eyes if they did not do as he ordered.

Exhausted, Faramir fell to his knees on the floor, unable to hold his own weight after the guards had let go of him, having used up all his strength in his concern for Eowyn and his desperate attempts to free himself from the guards. The blood loss from the wound in his arm warned him that he was feeling more than simple exhaustion.

At once, Aragorn was kneeling beside him, a hand on his shoulder, having sheathed his sword, worry clearly written on his face.

“It is good to see you well,” Faramir said with a strained smile at Aragorn. He looked up at Legolas and Gimli who remained alert, their weapons at the ready, in order to cover Aragorn and Faramir if needed. He saw the concern on their faces when they looked down at him and he smiled as a way to ease their concern. “All of you.”

“I would say the same, only you do not look well,” Legolas answered for them all, not the least reassured by Faramir’s attempt at a smile.

“I send you to safety and you get wounded. Boromir will not be pleased with me,” Aragorn said with humour in his voice, trying to lighten Faramir’s spirits as he had when he had been a young boy. He started to check Faramir for any injuries besides his wound, and the now dried blood on his chin from a split lip. His hands carefully ran over Faramir’s chest, and Faramir winced in pain from the soreness the guards’ beating had left. A few ribs could be broken or at the very least, cracked. Aragorn tore a piece off his shirt and began to bind it around the deep cut in Faramir’s arm to stop the bleeding, knowing he had to do more and soon. It was a nasty and deep cut and it needed to be stitched and cleaned; already the blood loss was worrying him.

“Nor with me,” Faramir said with a smile before he grew serious. He did a head movement to indicate what was happening behind him though he couldn’t turn to see. “Gandalf is back. It brings great joy to my heart yet I am confused how this can be. Did he not truly perish? Did we leave him wounded?” Guilt and pain was in his voice at this very thought. It had always been a fear, a nightmare of his, that he had left someone for dead when in truth they could have been saved.

“He is eternal,” Aragorn explained briefly, his thoughts on Faramir’s welfare. He looked worriedly at Faramir, looking into his pain-clouded eyes. “You have lost a lot of blood. I fear you have also broken a rib or two. I must tend to your injuries.”

“I must first see if Eowyn is well. Help me up, please,” he asked, and leaning heavily on Aragorn he got to his feet, Aragorn holding an arm around his waist. Legolas put his arrow away and Gimli, his axe, and they all went towards the throne. They saw Gandalf say a spell towards the King, Wormtongue now lying unconscious against one of the walls of the room, probably having been felled by Gandalf’s power.

“Faramir!” Eowyn yelled, both relief and concern in her voice and on her face as she ran to him, stopping in front of him. She eyed Aragorn suspiciously, but the gentle way he was holding Faramir convinced her he was a friend. She looked back at her uncle, her eyes and voice filled with fear and rising panic. “Do you know the man who hurts my uncle? You must tell him to stop. My uncle is in pain.”

“Do not fear. Gandalf is saving your uncle’s soul from Sauron. He will be fine.” Faramir calmed her and reached his unhurt hand towards her in comfort and support. She took it between both of hers, having faith in his judgement.

A sudden blinding light made everyone look towards the throne and when the light faded away they saw Theoden had changed appearance; he now looked well and fitting his age, a confused but calm and vigilant look in his eyes.

“What has happened?” Theoden asked confusedly, looking with surprise at the strangers standing before him.

Eowyn released her hold on Faramir and ran to Theoden and embraced him, smiling widely in happiness at finally having her uncle back. He hugged her back though confusion over her enthusiasm was clear in his eyes and face. “You are well!” she said joyfully.

Faramir looked at her, reassured, a fond smile playing at his lips, his eyes filled with love. “She is well,” he mumbled. They were all well; everything was going to be okay. The relief after so much fear and excitement, the blood loss, and the fact that he hadn’t gotten much sleep ever since his vision of Rohan’s possible fate had come to him, made his legs give way under him.

“Careful. You must lie down now so I can tend to you. Let me guide you,” Aragorn said with warmth and concern, holding a strong arm around his waist as he started to steer him towards the door leading into the palace.

“Don’t let Wormtongue leave the palace nor send any men from here,” Faramir warned, urgency written in his face, the importance of his message momentarily forcing his exhaustion away. He took a surprisingly strong grip on Aragorn’s shirt in the front with his uninjured hand to get his full attention while he spoke.

“I will see to it,” he promised, locking eyes with Faramir for a moment.

“Good,” Faramir said, relieved. With this certainty, his mind finally gave up the fight against his body’s needs. His vision went foggy around the edges, his grip on Aragorn’s shirt loosened, and he would have slipped to the floor had Aragorn not had a strong grip on him. From somewhere he heard Eowyn say his name, with worry in her voice but he was too drained to reassure her. He needed to close his eyes just for a moment. Just for a moment.

“Do not worry. I shall see to everything…. You just get well.” Aragorn’s warm and concerned voice was the last thing Faramir heard before he, with peace of mind, let the darkness take him, having complete faith in Aragorn and his abilities.


	26. Love Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir and Aragorn talk of love and other matters. Later Aragorn talk with Elrond about love and politics.

## Love Revealed

Faramir was awoken by a gentle touch to his injured arm. Despite the gentleness, his wound was still fresh enough for the touch to send a wave of discomfort through him and bring him back to awareness. When he opened his eyes, he saw he was back in the bed in the chambers he had been occupying since his arrival in Edoras, and where Eowyn had nursed him back to health. Light from the window indicated it was afternoon. This time though it was Aragorn who sat by his bedside. For a moment he felt a wave of confusion and panic hit him; how could Aragorn be here? Was Eowyn unharmed? With a relieved rush, full memory returned and his whole body relaxed.

Aragorn caught his eyes and smiled down at him. He put the dirty bandage he had just removed, and which had likely been what had roused Faramir, on the bedside table next to a basin of water and fresh bandages. “You have awoken.”

Faramir noticed Aragorn had showered and changed since he had seen him last and was now dressed finely, his shirt royal red. The fresh and noble look suited him well and indicated some time must have passed since he had arrived.

“I feared you a dream,” Faramir admitted, smiling in relief at him, still amazed that much of his concern and worry, as well as his burden, had now been eased after what had felt like forever carrying the fate of a nation – and its people - on his shoulders.

“I am quite real,” Aragorn assured him with humour sparkling in his eyes, his voice warm. Since Faramir had journeyed to Edoras, Aragorn had worried for him, feverishly hoping he had recovered from the poison. Finding Faramir recovered and well, at least he would be when Aragorn was done with him, had eased his mind and calmed his fears. Now his full concern was for Boromir, his country and his people – both in Rivendell and in Gondor. “The wound is healing nicely,” Aragorn let Faramir know with satisfaction as he applied healing ointment to the wound. Thereafter he began to dress Faramir’s arm in a fresh bandage. “I have bandaged your arm and your ribs; your ribs were bruised but none were broken. Try and keep both as still as possible in the coming days.”

  
“I will,” Faramir promised. As long as he didn’t move his arm too quickly or too much, he felt hardly any pain, likely due to the ointment Aragorn had applied to the wound. “How long—” he began but was interrupted by Aragorn who knew just what he was going to say.

“Not long. I arrived yesterday before dusk.” His look softened as he added, “You were exhausted.” After everything he had been through, Aragorn was amazed Faramir hadn’t slept longer.

Faramir nodded before he asked worriedly, “And the war effort?”

Aragorn finished the bandage and sat up, looking him in the eyes, a proud smile on his lips for Faramir’s courage. “The King’s mind is once more his own. Lady Eowyn explained about your vision and your efforts to protect Rohan and Her people, and the King supports the efforts you have made.”

  
Faramir breathed in relief. Things had turned out far better than he had ever dared hope. Then he remembered something and a shadow fell once more over his features. “There is a commander…” Faramir began, his voice caught between worry, guilt and embarrassment and he rose a little from the pillows.

“In the tower chamber, yes, I know. Lady Eowyn told me. We released him,” Aragorn interrupted him, wishing to calm him with this assurance while he gently pushed him to lie back down.

Faramir drew a relieved breath and his body relaxed once more. “He is not mad?”

“He understands.” Aragorn paused and then smiled, brotherly affection and pride over Faramir’s quick thinking shining in his eyes. “What were you thinking to do with him anyway?”

Faramir squirmed uncomfortably. “I know not. I had not thought so far ahead.”

  
Aragorn grew serious. “You had expected to die here,” Aragorn realized, melancholy and shock in his voice. He could have died without him knowing… without him having been able to prevent it. The thought tore painfully at Aragorn’s heart.

“I knew if the Elves did not arrive, my plan would fail. I also knew it would not be possible to deceive so many people for very long,” Faramir said softly, his gaze lowered to the covers, not denying Aragorn’s conclusion. Though it had never been a conscious decision, he had always known death was a very likely outcome. Yet for the chance to save a country, an entire people, it would have been a price worth paying. His only regret would have been if Eowyn had perished with him, and that he would not have been able to say goodbye to his brother and Aragorn.

Aragorn was taken back by Faramir’s willingness to sacrifice himself. Boromir would also have done the right thing, of this Aragorn was certain, but he would never have accepted this was a road that would demand his life. Boromir would see that as admitting defeat. Himself… he would have taken Faramir’s route only if there was no other way. Faramir seemed to take this option at once, willingly giving his life before making much of an effort to try and find a plan that would not cost him his life. He quickly put the value of others far above himself; making their lives more important than his own. This knowledge both saddened Aragorn and made him proud to call the younger man brother, not by blood but by choice.

“Boromir would never have forgiven me nor himself had you fallen on foreign land alone,” Aragorn said softly, heartfelt, before he quietly added, his eyes when he looked at Faramir filled with certainty, “I would not have forgiven myself.”

“It would have been my decision to make,” Faramir protested as he looked up into Aragorn’s eyes. He felt the loving scorn of Aragorn’s concern make heat rise in his cheeks, and warmth of the knowledge that he would have been missed spread through his soul.

“Though in the eyes of the law you are still a child, I have always respected your right to make your own decisions and I always will… on everything but this,” Aragorn said honestly, his voice agonized by the very thought of losing the young man whom he had come to love as the little brother he had never had. “You give your life far too easily. Do you not see that your life… **you** matter?” Aragorn added urgently, his eyes and voice almost pleading with Faramir to understand how much he meant to him and so many other people, but Faramir did not seem to see this.

Faramir blushed, taken aback by the open and honest caring in Aragorn’s voice. “I am sorry I worried you,” he said softly.

“I worry for all my brothers yet you are my only little brother. You hold a special place in my heart,” Aragorn said quietly, not realizing how much he was revealing with the remark, as Boromir was also younger than him. He stroked some hair out of Faramir’s eyes as he had when he was a small child, trying to convey to him that he was safe and cared for.

Faramir smiled contently, blushing happily at Aragorn’s warm words before a thought hit him. “Did you find Elrond’s son?” he asked worriedly, Aragorn’s remark on brothers having led his thoughts to Aragorn’s Elven brothers; Elrond’s twin sons.

Aragorn nodded soberly, relief glowing in his eyes. “Saruman held him captive in his dungeon. We freed him. He is in the chamber next to yours, recovering. He will be fine.” Luckily, Saruman had not only kept the regal Elf alive but had mostly also left him alone, likely planning to use him to bargain with. 

Faramir sighed in relief. He could not even begin to imagine the pain it must be to lose a child, and then a child you had never expected would die, ever. Then Aragorn’s words caught up with him and he looked in surprise at him. “You went to Isengard?”

“Actually the Hobbits did,” Aragorn said with a smile, his fondness and respect for the small creatures clear in his voice.

  
“Merry and Pippin are alive?” Faramir asked joyously. He had hoped and prayed they would be but had accepted it was very likely they would not.

“Yes, and they are eager to see you,” Aragorn said with another smile.

“I would love to see them!” Faramir said with a wide smile of his own. Then he frowned when his happiness at the good news gave way to worry. “What of Saruman? How did you escape from him?” The man was a powerful wizard; surely that could not have been easy.

“Merry and Pippin convinced the Ents to go to war. When we arrived, Isengard was destroyed and Gandalf killed Saruman in self defence.”

Though he normally never celebrated death, Faramir allowed himself a satisfied smile at the news of the wizard’s demise. “And Saruman’s Orcs?”

“The ones he had kept at Isengard were destroyed, but the armies he had already sent out are still out there, unaware of his demise. Lady Eowyn knew where you had hidden the map on troop movements, and together with the King, we continued your plan of attack, now with backing from the entire army.” He paused before he added, “With the resources you had at your disposal, your strategy was flawless.” Though he had never doubted Faramir’s military skills, he had never seen them in action till now, but had based his faith on Faramir’s character and his close bond with him. 

“Thank you,” Faramir said graciously, moved by the praise. He had hidden the map in a place he knew Eowyn would be able to find. In case he had perished, she would have had a chance to carry on with their plan.

“However, we still need more men,” Aragorn admitted grimly. Though their odds had improved, they were still hopelessly outnumbered.

“As Eowyn has surely told you, we sent a letter to Rivendell asking for assistance. The Elves have not yet come?” Faramir asked, trying to hide his disappointment. They would come. They would. They would come in their hour of need. They had to. The alternative would be a failure with such dreadful consequences, it was unthinkable.

“They will be here. The road from Rivendell is long, and mayhap Elrond has gathered Elves from the Golden Wood and Mirkwood as well to strengthen our numbers,” Aragorn reasoned, having complete faith in his foster father. He had gathered the Fellowship; he would not abandon them now.

“Of course. That must be it,” Faramir agreed and forced himself to relax. “How are the others?” he asked with a smile, forcing both of their thoughts on to more pleasant matters. He was eager to see Eowyn again and had only barely stopped himself from asking directly to see her.

“They are well. Merry and Pippin are in the kitchen, trying to get some treats from the cook,” Aragorn said with a smile and Faramir smiled back at this, easily able to imagine the havoc the two of them could wreak on the poor kitchen staff. “Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli are in the throne room speaking with the King on how to proceed. The Lady Eowyn is there as well. We have sent a rider to try and locate Eomer, but I did not dispatch a rider for Gondor. Lady Eowyn showed me the arrow that killed the rider you sent and it is Gondor’s design,” Aragorn revealed, frowning in concern; like Faramir his concern rested with Boromir’s fate. He prayed his letter of love; his honest confession would help him keep the shadows at bay. Suddenly he regretted he hadn’t been more forceful in his confession; if all fell to ruin, he would not have just one memory to warm him throughout the darkness.

“The orders of my father. He does not trust Rohan,” Faramir said sadly. As the years had passed, his father had fallen further into shadow and had started to mistrust everyone. When he had left to join the Fellowship, he seemed for the first time to have started to doubt even Boromir. Faramir caught the look of agonized doubt in Aragorn’s eyes, knowing just what he was thinking because he had feared the same. “My brother has not fallen into shadow. I would know it if he had,” he said with certainty. They were brothers, connected by more than blood, more than their visions. He would know… despite the distance. He had to believe that or he would go mad with worry. He shook his head as if to clear it of such dark thoughts. He laid his good arm on his chest, his hand on his heart. “I feel him here… in my heart, in my soul. He is still alive in the light,” he added quietly, intensely.

  
“I hope so,” Aragorn said softly, wishing he were as sure. He did not doubt Boromir’s strength but he knew everyone had a breaking point. It was not just unreasonable but also unnatural to assume Boromir’s would be so much higher than any other man’s.

“I considered contacting Eomer as well but he thinks himself an outlaw. He will avoid all riders bearing the mark of Rohan,” Faramir said, changing the subject. Their talk had helped the rest of the sleep disappear from his mind and he fought to sit up. Aragorn helped him, arranging the pillows behind him so he could lean back against them.

Aragorn nodded in agreement to Faramir’s words as he drew back again. “If the rider does not find him, we will wait for him to find us when the news about Saruman reaches the Riddermark.”

“What did you do with Wormtongue?” Faramir asked with a hint of anger at the man, and curiosity over Aragorn’s decision showing in his voice and face.

“The decision was not mine to make but King Theoden’s. He had him thrown in the dungeon. He will be well cared for but will never again be free.”

Faramir nodded, relieved to hear the man was contained; Eowyn would be safe from him now. “Until the War ends it is probably best he is not allowed to run free.”

“He tried to kill you. I fear I would have challenged the man to combat and killed him,” Aragorn said evenly, cold rage making his eyes shine. “Not a very kingly gesture,” he acknowledged without apology in his voice.

“No… a brotherly one,” Faramir said softly, happy to know the strong kinship between them hadn’t faded despite their years apart. He briefly squeezed Aragorn’s hand with his uninjured one.

As Faramir withdrew his hand, Aragorn laughed at his words to break the heartfelt moment. “Your brother would have killed the man where he stood.”

Faramir smiled a fond smile of remembrance as he thought of his brother. “True.”  
  


They sat in comfortable silence for a while before Aragorn reluctantly said, “I should let you get some rest.” He made a movement as if to get up.

“Nay, I have slept long enough. Stay and speak with me for a while, please,” Faramir requested, his good hand having a firm grip on Aragorn’s arm to prevent him from rising. “I will ask you to leave soon enough so I can get dressed and join the others,” he added in a warm and light tone.

Aragorn nodded and smiled at his words. Faramir released his arm as Aragorn tried to get more comfortable sitting at his bedside. “There is something on your mind?”

Faramir hesitated but then decided honesty was always the best approach. “You have met the Lady Eowyn?” he asked, knowing Aragorn had, but finding it hard to broach the subject. He loved her and was fairly certain she had strong feelings for him as well. The question was if she would admit to them. However, after having had to face death without having been able to do as much as hold her in his arms, he knew he would delay no longer. If she would agree to become his bride, he would not ask for anything else. He would be content for the rest of his life. Though a lack of support in his choice for a future bride from Boromir or Aragorn would not lessen his love for her, it would be a terrible choice he would have to make. Their support was of particular importance should his father resist the match.

Aragorn nodded, a slightly puzzled look on his face at the unexpected question. “Yes. A beautiful but very strong willed woman.”

“What do you think of her?” Faramir asked intensely.

“I have but met her, yet she seems like a lovely lady,” Aragorn said with slight confusion as to where this was going.

“What would you think of her as a…wife?” Faramir asked, fighting down his embarrassment at mentioning his innermost desire out loud, afraid to be told he would never stand a chance to win her affection, even less her hand in marriage.

“She is not like other women. She would demand a certain kind of husband,” Aragorn said thoughtfully. He hadn’t thought of the Lady before now, and certainly not in this manner, but he wished to give Faramir a reply he could use since this seemed important to him. Therefore he took great care to remember everything about her and draw his best conclusions from this. “She wishes to be seen as an equal to a man in all ways, she wishes to be taken into council on all decisions. I believe she would bow only to a man she finds worthy of this, and who will take her submission as a gift and treat her with respect and care,” he mused out loud.

Faramir listened carefully, having thought something like that himself. “What kind of man would she agree to marry?” Faramir asked, trying not to get his hopes up. Over the weeks he had fallen in love with her, and he knew this was the woman who could make him happy. This was the woman he wished to spend the rest of his days with. The question was… did she wish the same?

“A man she finds worthy of her love, I would assume,” Aragorn said, puzzled at Faramir’s persistence with the subject. He saw Faramir expected him to say more so he added, “Someone who is gentle, someone who does not need to show his manliness by putting her down. A man secure in his own abilities to be where he wants to be, a man who does not need or wish for power, glory or control. A man who is not afraid to admit to being weak or needing help. A man who does not let others’ opinions rule his own.”

Faramir thought about this for a few minutes, looking intensely at Aragorn. “I see,” he said softly, sadly. He could easily match those requirements, and had, after his weeks with Eowyn, reached the same conclusions as to what she would likely prefer. It was for another reason he felt his courage leave him. For Aragorn to think about all this, to be so insightful…. Surely he had himself found Eowyn attractive and been drawn to her. He couldn’t imagine how anyone would not be. He knew against Aragorn, he did not stand a chance nor did he desire to even try.

Faramir’s distress was clearly written on his face and Aragorn didn’t take long in coming to a conclusion. “You love her,” he stated gently, surprise but also happiness for him in his voice. Faramir deserved to be happy, deserved to be loved.

Faramir nodded miserably, his eyes downcast, and with his good hand, he smoothed imaginary folds in the covers. He could imagine no worse torture than seeing Aragorn with Eowyn, knowing his love for them both would forever curse him. “I will step aside for you.”

Aragorn looked in astonishment at him, completely taken aback. “For me? I do not desire the girl.”

Faramir looked surprised yet relieved at him, his eyes shining with hope. “You do not?”

Aragorn shook his head and smiled reassuringly at him. “No.”

Faramir felt relief sweeter than spring water wash over him. “Why not?” he asked curiously, unable to understand why any man would not wish to be with Eowyn. In his eyes, she was perfection personified.

Aragorn shrugged. “She is a great woman yet not what I am looking for.”

“What are you looking for?” Faramir asked curiously, really wanting to know. As far as he knew Aragorn was not and had never been in love.

_Good question_ , Aragorn thought, aware this could become a very intense – and revealing - debate if he was not careful. “Someone to share the burden of my future Kingship with me. Someone… someone I can share everything I am with,” he said carefully.

Faramir nodded in understanding and smiled, a dreamy look in his eyes. “That is what I see in Eowyn. Such strength.”

“A passion held back, making you wish to see what will happen if you can unleash it,” Aragorn mumbled, his thoughts far away, drifting. Boromir smiling at him… warm, almost inviting… secretive….

“Such pain in her eyes you wish you can take away,” Faramir went on, thinking about Eowyn, how she would draw away from him if he were too close to breaching her defences.

“Afraid to get hurt…afraid to look weak,” Aragorn went on, images playing in his mind’s eye. Boromir fighting, feeling he had to win, protecting what he loved with a strength that said he expected to be alone in this battle and all coming battles as well. Boromir was one of the most complex men he knew; maybe that was why he loved him. 

“Afraid she will turn you down; find you unworthy,” Faramir whispered, sharing his innermost fear.

“Risk everything… change the teachings of a lifetime…. Can it even be done?” Aragorn mused, thinking of Denethor and his teachings of not being weak, not showing emotions… not being ‘womanly’. Would Boromir ever be able to accept his love or did he love a dream? Well, Faramir had turned out all right. Hurt, yes, damaged, yes, but still able to love. Yet he had also never had Denethor’s love, that extra pressure, that Boromir had had. He had not listened to his father’s teachings all the time but had often been ignored and pushed aside. Even if Boromir could accept his love, would it be fair of him to ask for it? Warrior bondings had never taken place in Gondor the way they had in Elven kingdoms. There would be huge sacrifices to be made. Would their love truly be strong enough to survive that? 

“Yet where nothing is ventured, nothing is gained. Better to know for certain this love cannot be than long forever,” Faramir mumbled, a determined look in his eyes. He would speak with Eowyn later today. He had to know if she felt the same. 

Aragorn had gotten lost in his own inner doubts and agonizing fears and was unaware he was speaking to an audience. “Yet should you risk losing a friendship, a brotherhood, that has meant so much? Green eyes now filled with hate and flame?” Aragorn muttered softly. He wished Boromir to remain a part of his life, forever. That much he had always known. If he claimed his letter had been meant as brotherly affection, he was sure Boromir would accept this, and they would never speak of it again. Yet he also knew he would never be happy; he would forever long, and forever wonder about what might have been. 

“Yet such beauty…. How could you stay close to her and not wish to touch her, kiss her? Something that feels so natural,” Faramir went on thoughtfully, having not really heard Aragorn’s words, like Aragorn, he was caught up in his own inner musings of hope and fear.

“Yet to let go… give up. Would it even be possible? Can a heart learn to forget? Those haunting green eyes, that firm and strong body… kissing red lips… holding his body close and tight,” Aragorn mumbled to himself, questioning, so caught up in his inner conflict, he was unaware of what he had just said. Could he stop loving, stop longing to feel his kisses, his body close against his? To touch, to taste, to be his, and claim him in return? Just questioning himself now made heat rise in him and settle in his stomach before moving lower.

“What?” Faramir asked, surprised, not sure if he had heard correctly, but Aragorn’s words had shaken him out of his own musings. “We…we **are** still talking about Eowyn, are we not?” he asked hesitantly, unsure of what to think but not wishing to insult Aragorn by jumping to any conclusions.

Aragorn was torn from his inner conflict and back to the present. He fought down an embarrassed blush as he realized what he had just said. He had to take one day at a time, fight one battle at a time. He couldn’t let his fears and uncertainties cloud his judgment or overshadow the duties and demands he had before him now and in the future. He loved Boromir, of this he was certain. He knew what he wanted, what he longed for. Faramir was right. No matter the cost, he had to stand by what he was feeling because he knew, even if he tried, he would not be able to deny his emotions. He would not be able to live with Boromir constantly in his life but only as a friend, a brother, and never betray his love through words or touch. The longing would be too great; it would end up tearing them apart. He would gain nothing by not standing by what he felt, what he believed. A calm settled over him in that moment. Boromir was a grown man, more than capable of making his own decisions and standing by them. He did not need or want Aragorn’s protection, not even from his heart. Aragorn made up his mind. He would talk with Boromir when he saw him next. Though it was a terrifying thought having to approach Boromir and bare his soul, knowing the other man could burn him worse than any fire ever could, he knew he had to do it. Despite his fear of rejection, his newfound determination also gave him a sense of hope; if Boromir loved him, maybe together they could create a future in which they would both be happy and above all… together. But one step at a time. One battle at a time.

“Oh. Yes, certainly,” Aragorn replied to Faramir’s words, his mind caught up in thoughts of Boromir, and now that his thoughts rested there, his worry for Boromir’s safety resurfaced. 

“You were talking of a man…” Faramir began thoughtfully and fought to recall Aragorn’s words. First Legolas came to mind as a possibility but then he recalled Aragorn had spoken of green eyes… twice. He looked in surprise and shock at Aragorn, “You were speaking of my brother!”

Aragorn considered lying but did not wish to do so to Faramir. Besides, he was not ashamed of his emotions, and sooner or later, no matter what Boromir’s answer to his love might be, he would know the truth. If nothing else then, because he knew Aragorn well enough to discover the truth, given time enough to observe him around his brother. “I am sorry if this disgusts you but yes… I do love your brother,” he said, a hint of defiance in his words, his eyes unyielding as they met and held Faramir’s. Though Faramir’s approval and acceptance was important to him, the lack of it would not make him hesitate.

  
“As more than a brother?” Faramir asked, trying to get his surprise and shock under control and wishing to be certain so as to not make any assumptions. Most Gondorians would take great offence if it were even hinted that their love might lay with another man.

“Yes,” Aragorn confirmed, his voice strong and certain. It was relieving, yet also a little frightening to finally admit to his emotions to someone who wasn’t Elvenkind, and who therefore would not, by upbringing and cultural influence, automatically and easily accept his emotions.

Faramir simply looked in shock at him, trying to wrap his brain around this new information. “I… I never knew,” he said lamely, not knowing what else to say.

“I did not either until after I had left for Rivendell and learned of warrior bondings… the bonding of two warriors in body, soul and spirit,” Aragorn explained. He paused but then went on, wanting to clarify, “As we grew up together, I found I enjoyed your brother’s company more and more. We would share and debate, support and aid. We needed no words to understand what the other needed or wanted. At first our common protectiveness towards you bonded us but later it was more than that. I never demanded more from him than he could give and he never expected more from me than what I felt comfortable with. With him I was never the would-be King, I was never half Ranger, half brother… half everything. I was simply me.” Again he paused but he noticed he had Faramir’s full, and most importantly, open attention, so he continued, “I was content and at ease in his company. I didn’t know then what I felt was love, this kind of love, but I do recall I would often wish Boromir and I could run away together and raise you by ourselves in a small cottage far from your father…far from the demands put on us by lineage, inheritance and blood.” 

They sat in a somewhat tense silence while Faramir thought Aragorn’s words over. More than his words, he took in the love and warmth with which Aragorn had spoken of his love for Boromir. Finally he asked, his voice soft, “Does he know?”

  
Aragorn shook his head. “No.”

  
“You mean a lot to my brother yet I cannot say if he returns your affections. He was never one to bare his soul, not even to me.” Faramir paused but then added, “To be honest, I do not think he has ever considered it. It is not done in Gondor.”

Aragorn nodded grimly, relieved that so far Faramir was not upset or disgusted by his feelings. “I know. When I lived in Rivendell I found it was normal between Elves to have such warrior bonds and I considered if I wished for this with Boromir.”

“And you do?” Faramir pressed, wanting to understand, and to do so, he needed to know more.

Aragorn nodded, knowing he would have to be more honest about his emotions if Faramir were to understand. “I knew I always wanted him in my life, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that not only did I love him but I also found he was a perfect match for me. None other would ever be able to measure up; I never wanted nor needed anyone else…in any capacity. He is my equal in a way no woman could ever be. He can give me council like no other would be able to, he is a great warrior, an intelligent man, but above all, he has a soul which draws me in and keeps me captivated,” Aragorn explained, his eyes and voice having softened as he spoke. How did one explain love? It wasn’t possible. He would just have to hope Faramir would be able to understand.

Faramir nodded understanding, beginning to see what Aragorn meant. The two of them had always worked well together; united, they had been undefeated – in battle or in a debate. He smiled warmly. “After my brother, I love you best of all. If you can make my brother happy, you have my support…if it matters to you,” he amended, not wishing Aragorn to think he was so arrogant as to believe Aragorn would need his approval in this or any other matter.

  
“It matters a great deal,” Aragorn said, heartfelt, moved by Faramir’s easy acceptance, though he had always assumed Faramir’s support would be won as long as his brother was happy. He laid his hand over Faramir’s for a brief moment in silent thanks. “Though I am not of your blood, you have my permission to wed Eowyn if you seek it, and do not worry; I am certain she will accept. She has spoken constantly and very highly of you ever since I arrived. She came by to make sure you were healing well earlier,” Aragorn said warmly, returning one favour, one promise of support, with one of his own.

“Thank you,” Faramir said sincerely, happy to hear Aragorn say this.

Aragorn drew back from Faramir, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I had feared I had to fight all of Gondor on the matter of my heart, if your brother accepts me, mayhap I still do. Yet your easy approval brings me hope. I have to know… is it because of your affection for your brother and myself or do you truly feel this love is as pure as the Elves believe it to be?”

Faramir thought for a while. They were both considering a future which assumed a lot; most importantly, Sauron’s demise, the end of the War, and that Boromir did indeed return Aragorn’s affections. The uncertainty of this outcome had meant neither of them had given it much thought. “Sadly, I do not believe you can use my reaction as an indication for how Gondorians in general may react. If…when,” he corrected himself, “the War is over and you are crowned King, your station alone will hold power to silence many. Others may do so for other reasons; personal respect for you or my brother for example.” He had no idea how a warriors’ bond between a King and a future Steward would work, but he was confident if anyone could make it work, it would be Aragorn and his brother.

“I see,” Aragorn said with a frown. He had thought the same thing in the rare moments he had allowed himself to think so far ahead.

“As for me…” Faramir went on, “You once called me your brother of the spirit…Though I am proud to be Gondorian, my spirit is heavily influenced by the Elvish culture the way yours also is, most notably, thanks to your newfound allegiance to the Lord Elrond of Rivendell. I have read about Elves since I was a young boy, and though, in none of the books I have read in Gondor, do they speak openly of a union like a warriors’ bond, I am no fool; it was obvious that many of those warriors in the tales had a deeper dimension, a deeper level of love which, sadly, I as a reader was denied knowledge of.”

“Lord Elrond has the unedited versions,” Aragorn said, once more impressed by Faramir’s insight.

“I know; the book I read after we left Rivendell was from his library. It peripherally spoke of what I now assume was a warrior bond.” Faramir paused before he added, hope and his usual thirst for knowledge clear in his voice, “I would be honoured to read more.”

“I am sure Lord Elrond would be happy to allow access to his library,” Aragorn said with a smile. Then he sobered. “Boromir never—” Aragorn began hopefully.

“I am sorry but no,” Faramir shook his head, interrupting, as he knew where Aragorn’s hope lay. “He barely had time for our regular studies between his warrior training. He had no time for reading for pleasure.”

Aragorn nodded, somewhat disappointed though he had known it would be very unlikely Boromir would know of, and even less likely he would be accepting of the thought of warrior bonds. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, both feeling relieved to have shared their secrets and both fearful, yet also hopeful, in regard to the future.

“I will leave you to get dressed,” Aragorn finally said and rose.

“Aragorn,” Faramir said when he was by the door, taking the dirty bandage with him in the water basin he had used.

“Yes?” Aragorn asked, turning back to look at him.  
  


Faramir gave him an encouraging smile. “Follow your heart and have faith in Boromir’s. He may yet surprise you.” He did not know where his brother’s love lay, but he did know Boromir would never allow Aragorn to fade from his life. Given both men’s strength and affection for each other, he had faith that somehow they would be able to create a bond they could both be happy with.

Aragorn smiled warmly, happy for his support and encouragement. “Thank you,” he said before he left, closing the door silently behind him.

Faramir lay back on the pillows and allowed himself for a few minutes to daydream of Eowyn with a smile on his lips. Then with renewed strength and determination he got up to get dressed, his eyes shining with hope and love.

“This seems to be a favourite viewpoint of yours,” Faramir said softly, smiling, as he came up behind Eowyn who was standing on the top of the stairs leading to the palace like she had the first time he had seen her. She was dressed in a long white dress with wide sleeves, much like the one she had worn that time as well, standing in this exact spot, the banners of Rohan proudly flanking her on both sides. He had dressed lightly in plain pants, boots and a loose white shirt out of respect for his still sore ribs. His injured arm was bandaged under his shirt, as were his ribs. As long as he kept both as still as possible, he felt little pain thanks to Aragorn’s herbs. Before coming to find Eowyn, he had had a joyful reunion with the two Hobbits, and had briefly seen to Elrond’s son to assure himself the Elf was going to be all right. Though he had never met him before, he had shared in Aragorn’s worry for his safety and his joy in his safe return the way brothers do.

“Oh.” His voice startled her and broke her silent thoughts. She turned to look at him, a smile at seeing him up and about on her lips, and her eyes became soft and warm. “Yes. It is,” she answered before she asked, worry in her eyes, “Aragorn told me earlier when I came by to see you that you are healing nicely. Are you feeling any pain?”

Faramir shook his head, pleased by her worry and how much affection her face and eyes were betraying at the moment. “No. He is an excellent healer.”

She drew a relieved breath, not knowing her eyes were shining like stars, filled with a soft and warm glow. He smiled at her, his expression open and loving. The love in his eyes made her fight a blush, and she felt unsure of what to do now that the safe subject of his health had been broached. She turned back to look out over the city and the hills beyond, her heart beating wildly in her chest and her body felt warm due to his nearness. Now that the intense and agonizing ordeal was over, and his life was no longer in danger, her practical mind had once again surfaced, keeping her emotions under tight control. 

Faramir moved up to stand beside her. For a long while they simply stood side by side, trying to pretend they were watching the view instead of stealing glances at each other. Finally he turned around to face her, and to her surprise, he took her hand in his and looked into her eyes. “You know what I am to say,” he said softly, warmly.

She blushed and tried weakly to pull her hand back but he held on to it so she gave up and let her hand rest in his. “This is not the time. The War…” she protested weakly.

He shook his head at her, determined not to back down now. “There may always be wars yet this moment will happen only once.” He paused before he said honestly, laying his pride and heart at her feet, “You own my heart, you rule my fate.” When she remained silent, avoiding his eyes, he added softly, “Is it that you do not love me… or will you not?” For the first time since he had come to find her, a hint of uncertainty and hesitation had crept into his voice.

She didn’t know what to say, and this time when she put more force into it, he allowed her to pull away. “Things are complicated enough,” she said softly, pain flashing in her eyes. How could she have such a selfish heart when the fate of all of Middle Earth hung in the balance? There were more important matters to worry about, letting herself love him would only complicate everything.

“Love should not be complicated.”

She was silent for a long while, facing away from him, looking out over the distance. She let herself think about what it might be like if she let herself love him and one fear was so great, it did not allow the thought to come to a conclusion. When she turned towards him, unshed tears shone in her eyes. “What if I lost you? I have lost so much already. I do not think I could bear losing you,” she admitted softly, her voice agonized.

Faramir felt a lump in his throat. He stepped closer to her and gently wiped away the single tear that had fallen. He put a gentle hand to her right cheek. “I cannot promise never to die but I can promise you will never lose me. If you let me love you, a part of me shall always be with you,” he vowed solemnly.

She smiled up at him through the tears shining in her eyes. What would denial bring her; she already loved him. Now she knew she always would. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he said warmly but strongly.

“Then kiss me,” she whispered boldly as he drew nearer, having secretly longed for this moment as long as he had.

“As you wish, my Lady,” he said softly, lovingly and did so. She threw her arms around his neck and drew him even closer, deepening the kiss while still careful not to press too close out of respect for his injuries. It was a kiss filled with promise and release, gentleness and intensity. A kiss that promised they had finally found what they had been looking for.

A distant noise, growing closer, made the new lovers look up and out towards the hills. Dust seemed to be flying from the earth and it was clear something large was approaching; such noise and display could only signal the arrival of an army.

Faramir instinctively tightened his arms around Eowyn and supported her back against his chest, leaning only superficially against him so not to bruise his ribs further as his arms closed around her waist.

“Orcs?” she asked with a frown. The happiness of her love, of feeling him close, lessened her fears and her worries.

Faramir followed the approaching army for a few seconds with his eyes before he shook his head, relief in his voice. “No. They ride too fast, too light.”

“What else? You do not think Gondor has sent an army, do you?” she asked hopefully.

“No. They are approaching from the wrong direction and Gondor will be caught up in a battle for survival against Mordor; I doubt they will have any resources to spare,” Faramir said, a hint of worry for his people and his brother in his voice.

She nodded agreement to his words. They watched the approaching army intensely, waiting to be able to see a banner or another telltale sign. The army came still closer with amazing speed and now he could see who it was. “It is the Elves. I see banners for Rivendell, the Golden Wood and Mirkwood!” Faramir said in joy, relief and happiness.

“This is the best news we could ever hope for!” Eowyn said joyously and turned around in his arms to give him a tight embrace, her arms around his neck. They were both smiling, their eyes sparkling with happiness. Soon their lips met again, sharing their relief and hope that finally the tides of the War could be turning.

This time when they returned their attention to the approaching army, several of the Elven commanders had reached the palace and were on the way up the stairs towards them. Faramir recognized Lord Elrond who led the army from Rivendell but the tall and golden warrior from the Golden Wood was not familiar to him. The commander from Mirkwood was so familiar in appearance to Legolas, it had to be one of his brothers. To his surprise, Lord Elrond was escorting his daughter up the stairs with them. He spotted her horse, a lady’s saddle on it giving it away, being taken to the royal stables by one of the servants together with her father’s. The officers had entered the city with the commanders and had started to arrange for supplies for their soldiers. The army itself had stopped some distance from the city and was preparing to make camp.

Faramir and Eowyn followed the Elves with their eyes as they approached them. They separated from each other, but Faramir kept a hand around her waist when she, with a warm smile, indicated it was all right with her that he did so.

“Lord Elrond,” Faramir greeted respectfully when the Elf reached him and the two men shook hands.

“Lady Arwen,” he said with a smile as he turned his attention to the tall and regal Elf standing by her father’s side. He was once again amazed by the Elven lady’s beauty, despite having been introduced to her in Rivendell. He briefly separated from Eowyn to kiss her hand in welcome, but when he drew back, he once more slid an arm around Eowyn’s waist. He noticed Eowyn was eyeing the Elves with open mouthed fascination and awe, having only heard of Elves in fairytales but having never seen them. He smiled inwardly, recalling how he had felt when he had first seen Legolas. He gave her a gentle push towards the Elves as he said, “May I present Lady Eowyn of Rohan?”

“A pleasure,” Arwen and Elrond said after each other as Arwen gave a small curtsy for her and Elrond gave a nod of his head in respect, keeping to human social rules, as Eowyn curtsied.

“Faramir. It is good to see you well. I was beginning to fear if mayhap I had taken too long. It has been several weeks since I received your letter,” Elrond said to him with concern after he had introduced him and Eowyn to Haldir of the Golden Wood and confirmed the commander from Mirkwood was indeed a brother to Legolas.

“You arrive just in time. Thank you, my Lord,” Faramir said, heartfelt. “And you need not worry; both your son and Estel are well. Estel is in the throne room with King Theoden and your son is in one of the chambers,” Faramir added, having read the concern in the Elf’s eyes and easily guessed its cause. He purposely used the Elven name given to Aragorn to let Elrond know he respected the kinship between them.

“My son, is he unharmed?” Elrond asked worriedly, for a moment becoming only a concerned father. Both he and Arwen hung on his words, fearful he should bring bad news of a beloved son or brother.

“He had become a prisoner of Saruman, but when Isengard was destroyed, he was freed. I spoke with him a few hours ago. He is gaining strength quickly and will make a full recovery,” Faramir calmed him and Elrond and Arwen breathed in relief.

“And what of Prince Legolas?” Arwen asked anxiously, looking around as if Faramir had hidden the beautiful blond elf somewhere behind him.

Before Faramir could reply, Legolas and Aragorn exited the palace and came towards them.

“Brother,” Legolas began in surprise, his tone warm, as he saw whom the commander from his homeland was. His brother smiled at him but before he got any further or his brother could say a word in greeting, he saw her. “Arwen!” he said in astonishment, not expecting her to be travelling with the Elven army he and Aragorn had been notified were approaching. A wide smile spread over his lips as soon as he spotted her and he forgot everything else in his joy. 

“Legolas!” Arwen yelled happily as soon as she saw him, and all her fears and worries melted away. She forgot everything about protocol and left her father’s side. They both started to run to each other and met halfway. She willingly went into his open arms and both of them seemed to almost glow in their love and joy. They had eyes only for each other and were smiling widely. He lifted her up and spun her around, her arms around his neck, his hands on her waist. Her long beautiful dress formed a circle like rose petals around them, until he slowly stopped to put her back on her feet as their lips met in a warm and loving kiss.

“Youth,” Elrond said good-naturedly, happiness for his daughter shining in his eyes. He smiled when he turned his attention from them to Aragorn.

“Father,” Aragorn said warmly but formally, stopping before him, close enough to touch if he reached out, which he didn’t, knowing Elven customs well enough to know Elves rarely touched in public or otherwise showed strong emotions when not in private. Young royalty in love obviously excluded.

“Son, I trust you are well?” Elrond asked, his warm tone, mild eyes and soft expression conveying his care for the man-Elf he had taken in better than any words or touch ever could.

Aragorn nodded. “I am.” While they were talking, Arwen and Legolas had separated and were now speaking with Legolas’ brother who seemed more than happy with his brother’s choice of life-mate.

“Good… for I bring you an army,” he said with a reserved smile and indicated the troops that had begun to make camp just outside the city, and the many officers that had entered it, assuring supplies for their men while their officers commission guaranteed them quarters inside the city.

“Thank you,” Aragorn said heartfelt, letting his relief shine through in his words. Now they had a chance of inflicting more heavy damage and hopefully keeping Sauron occupied long enough for Frodo to reach his goal. “We will move out as soon as they have rested.”

Elrond nodded in agreement and then smiled, humour sparkling in his eyes. “We also found someone as we crossed into Rohan, whom - I believe - you might have been searching for.”

Elrond sidestepped just at the right moment, his Elven ears having picked up on the approaching footsteps, when Eomer appeared on top of the stairs, without his helmet but still dressed in his battle clothes. He was dirty and exhausted from his travel yet as soon as he spotted Eowyn before him, all traces of exhaustion seemed to leave him and he smiled widely.

“Brother!” Eowyn called happily, relieved to see him well. She left Faramir’s side to fly into his arms.

His smile and eyes betrayed his joy at the reunion and he hugged her close. “Little sister,” he said fondly, his voice muffled by her long hair. After a few seconds they reluctantly drew apart and Eomer scanned her to assure himself she truly was unharmed. He sighed, relieved when he found she was.

“Eomer,” Faramir said with a warm smile as he came to him, having waited till the siblings had had their reunion, and the two men shook hands, warrior style.

  
”I see you have taken good care of my sister. Thank you,” Eomer said, heartfelt when he withdrew his hand.

“I will not take credit where none is due. She took care of me,” Faramir said honestly with a fond look at Eowyn.

Eomer noticed the warm look and also how Eowyn smiled warmly back. She was a changed woman from the worried and lonely sister he had left behind; she seemed to glow with happiness and contentment. “Is there something I should know?” he asked with some amusement, fairly certain he had guessed the reason for her happiness correctly.

Faramir sobered and fought down his nervousness. He nodded in reply. “Yes, I would like your permission to court your sister,” he said formally, seriously, praying Eomer would give his approval for he could never make himself ask Eowyn to choose between her brother and himself.

“My sister has hardly asked or needed my permission in the past but I will happily give it,” he said with an affectionate smile for Eowyn. He had always liked Faramir even as a young boy; he wasn’t like most warriors, in many ways more scholar than warrior, but he felt certain it was this which would make him a good match for his sister. From the looks the two of them shared, it would not be long before Faramir would ask for his sister’s hand in marriage. For the chance to know his sister would always be as happy as she was in this moment his approval was a given.

  
”Thank you,” Faramir said warmly, relieved.

“Thank you, dear brother,” Eowyn said lovingly and hugged him again.

“Just… take care of each other,” he said, a look between sadness at losing a sister and happiness at seeing her joy on his face as Eowyn drew back from him.

“We will,” Faramir promised, his hand once more going around her waist.

“Let us go to the large dining hall and prepare a proper welcome feast for our guests,” Theoden said from the entrance to the palace, Gandalf standing, smiling, beside him. Faramir, Eowyn and Eomer all turned towards him, startled out of their conversation. They hadn’t noticed him before now, caught up in the moment.

After a joyful reunion between Theoden and Eomer and all introductions had been made, they all went to the dining hall. The festivities began and plenty of wine and food had been delivered to the armies’ camp sites so everyone could enjoy the evening. There was a strong intensity to the laughter and the drinking; everyone knew in a day or two they would be sent on dangerous missions to rid Rohan of the last of Saruman’s forces and therefore march on Mordor through Gondor. For many, this would be their last feast. 

“Something troubles you, my son,” Elrond said insightfully as he seated himself next to Aragorn. The would-be King had seated himself in a quiet corner of the dining hall, as far away from the noisy feast as possible. The party had begun and most were very drunk. Exceptions were Faramir and Eowyn who, after Faramir earlier that evening had received Theoden’s permission to court his niece, had disappeared to sit out in the garden, quietly talking and holding hands. Legolas and Arwen were also exceptions; they had also disappeared, probably also to one of the gardens. There was also Eomer and Theoden, who sat at a table debating the war effort and everything that had happened since the King’s mind had first been poisoned. Finally all of the Elves were still very sober, for some of them, only because mortal liquor had very little effect on Elven physiology.

Aragorn looked up from his mug of beer and the frown on his face dissolved into a smile as he saw who had disrupted his thoughts. “Just thinking, Father.”

Elrond nodded. Now that he had seen for himself his son would be all right and was healing well, he found he had the time and energy to go more into this matter with his adopted son. “On a matter close to heart?” Elrond guessed.

Aragorn nodded and stayed silent for a moment then decided he needed some guidance. “What is your opinion of the warrior bond?” he asked directly, his eyes intense on Elrond as he spoke.

“I have had a warriors’ bond myself once, thousands of years ago, and as you know, one of my sons also has one.” He paused, noticing the conflict that seemed to shine in Aragorn’s eyes. “I am not sure I understand what you mean by your question though.”

Aragorn looked away for a moment, fiddling with the mug in his hands. “You know humans do not believe in warrior bonds.”

Elrond nodded grimly, frowning. “I know they have come to feel this way, yet not all humans feel thus. In the past none of them did. It was first when they started creating cities, kingdoms, churches. They built up so many rules, they ended up becoming prisoners of the rules that they had made to be free; to better and further themselves,” Elrond mused out loud, thousands of years of mortal history flashing before his eyes.

“Do you think a Gondorian today would agree to a warrior bond?” Aragorn asked softly, looking down at the wooden table before looking back up at Elrond. Hope and doubt shadowed his face.

“Depends on the man; most would probably not.” Elrond paused, not sure if he should pry, yet from Aragorn’s perplexed look, he gathered he needed some advice right about now. “What man haunts your dreams, my son?” he asked sympathetically. “You must know that though you are human, you are now also Elvenkind and we think differently. We have lived for thousands of years; we are immortal. We know the pain of loneliness and thus we have long since seen the logic and beauty in finding love where love is freely given,” he added in warning, letting his son know that what was natural for elves might not be as natural for mortals to understand.

“The man I love I have told you about as a friend… a brother to my heart,” Aragorn said softly and took a swallow of beer, his voice strong, proud, defiant and a little nervous.

“Faramir?” Elrond asked, surprised. It didn’t seem likely; he had been just a child when Aragorn had left Gondor. Yet he was the one Elrond thought of first.

“No… No!” Aragorn shook his head, his shock and surprise at the suggestion fading into a smile. “No, I could never see him like that. When first I saw him, he was but a babe.”

Elrond nodded. “Then… It is the Lord Boromir you speak of,” Elrond realized and many pieces fell into place, among others, Aragorn’s great love for the horse Boromir had given him and which he would be using in the coming battle.

“Yes,” Aragorn admitted softly, avoiding meeting his eyes by looking into his beer mug before he took another swallow. He stood by his love yet still feared Elrond’s reaction because he deeply wished for his approval.

“If you are seeking my blessing then you have it,” Elrond said seriously and Aragorn drew a relieved breath. Before he could express his thanks, Elrond went on, “if you are seeking my council I would ask for caution. He is the oldest son of Denethor and a true son of Gondor. He is proud and strong. You would ask he kneel to you as a King… and as a lover.”

“I ask not my lover to kneel before me. We would be equals,” Aragorn protested.

“The world would not see you as such. You would be King, he Steward and your consort. Were you Elfkind… were the Kingdom you were to rule Elfkind… this would not matter much, even if he were human for it has happened before. Many years after his death, you would take a female lover and have children to inherit the Kingdom,” Elrond said softly and a hint of pain and loss flashed over his face. Aragorn got the feeling he was speaking from experience… maybe even personal experience.

“Yet as things are?” Aragorn asked softly, knowing he had to know even though he knew he would not like the answer.

Elrond sighed, wishing his adopted son’s love did not have to walk such a pained path, yet he could not force thousands of years of wisdom upon the mortal race. They would have to learn by doing, painful as this was to watch. “The nobles might turn against you. The priests could do likewise. The public you might be able to keep for they wish peace and they wish a King. The army your skills will conquer though I doubt it will be an issue; from what I have heard the Lord Boromir should have their love easily enough. Be vigilant of the priests and the nobles though, for if you take Boromir as your lover, you will be breaking tradition. The priests may see it as a loss of power and the nobles may fear no nobleman’s daughter will ever catch the King’s eye,” Elrond warned him. He hoped it would not go this badly, he prayed the battles Aragorn would have to face for his love would be minimal. However, he could not help but to fear the worst.

“Surely they had not expected me to wed one of their daughters,” Aragorn said with a shake of his head, astonished. “Had I not chosen Boromir, I would have wed an Elven lady, I know this with certainty.” He had never really thought this far ahead; first priority was to win the War and see Boromir safe. Yet in this quiet moment, his thoughts had started to drift.

“Yet they do not,” Elrond reminded him, not unkindly. After a small pause he added, “What of offspring? You must have offspring and Boromir would most likely wish children of his own as well.”

Aragorn nodded, he had already considered this. He was to be a King; he knew he would need a son. “I would wish a son with a kind lady, Elvenkind or mortal, who would be willing to give the child to me in return for a title and riches… as well as a permanent and personal alliance with Gondor, bearing the official title as Princess of Gondor,” Aragorn explained.

Elrond nodded in agreement. It was not unusual for mortal Kings to have a morganatic wife; it was a position, which, for an impoverished noblewoman, was well sought after. She would often get her own castle far from court and would enjoy a privileged existence, often being able to pull her whole family up with her through her allegiance to the King. “This can be done. And Boromir?”

Aragorn was silent for a while and then said, “He would be my consort, second only to me. But… he would never be able to father a son. If the oldest son of Denethor had a son….” His voice faded away, sure Elrond would know what he meant. He would change traditions and rebuild a Kingdom. There were bound to be some opponents to this, in particular among the ruling elite under the Steward as some of them might experience a fall from grace after he had been crowned King.

“The Kingdom could later be torn apart,” Elrond finished for him, nodding agreement to his words. “He could still take a morganatic wife,” Elrond suggested but could see the thought made pain flash in Aragorn’s eyes. He did not wish to take a wife himself but did it to fulfil his duties and obligations. Elrond sighed sympathetically; mortal life was complicated. His voice was soft as he spoke next, wishing to spare Aragorn some of the danger and pain he knew his described future could bring him. “You might want to consider that you both marry. It would make this easier for you.”

Aragorn gave him a sharp look, shocked by the suggestion. Living a lie would not be fair to anyone and would just make them all miserable. It might be an easier life but he would rather fight every day and feel he was alive than live forever and feel numb. “This is my life. I may be a King, and as such I will do what is required of me, but I shall not hide what will be the best thing in my life! I refuse to let tradition and fear dictate my love or how I shall rule my Kingdom,” he said strongly, determination chiselled into every line of his face. If he were so lucky that Boromir accepted his love… he would not hide such a gift. He would not be able to.

Elrond smiled at hearing this; he could see the love behind the strength. He wished for nothing else than for Aragorn to see his affection returned. “Your strength and faith brings you great honour. I am pleased and proud to hear this.” He laid a supporting hand on Aragorn’s shoulder for a few seconds and Aragorn smiled at him in gratitude. “I pray Boromir feels the same, and that he will be willing to fight for your love with equal passion and courage for you may find you will need it… in particular in the first couple of years,” Elrond said sincerely, a hint of worry in his voice. 

Aragorn nodded grimly at hearing his own fears said out loud. “So do I.”

They sat in silence for a while, lost in thoughts. Then Elrond turned towards him and said seriously, wishing their debate to end on a hopeful note, “You will always be welcomed in Rivendell, both of you. If ever you need to just be you, no protocol, no courtly intrigues… human courts have become well known for them of late, no fighting, just to keep what your heart tells you is yours…. my home will always be open to you.”

“Thank you,” Aragorn said, heartfelt, as he turned to look at him. Elrond’s support meant a lot to him and gave him strength, yet his warnings haunted him. Elrond left to go talk with Gandalf, leaving Aragorn alone with his thoughts. So many doubts… so many possible obstacles… was it even worth it? He forced himself to forget all the possible trials and just think of Boromir; of how much he meant to him, how much he longed to hold him in his arms and finally call him his. He knew then without a doubt, if Boromir wanted him, no trial would be too hard, no sacrifice too much, to be with him.

For the rest of the evening Aragorn allowed his mind and heart to wander and forget all about the pains this love could bring and ignore all logic. He let his soul and heart dream and loving thoughts of Boromir filled him. A wide smile stayed on his lips till daybreak, a loving gleam sparkled in his eyes and everyone who looked at him in passing couldn’t help but smile as well.


	27. The Battle For Minas Tirith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn finally sees Boromir again

## The Battle For Minas Tirith

It took several weeks to defeat all the Orcs in Rohan despite the help from the Elves. By then, both Elrond’s son and Faramir had completely healed. Though casualties were high, Faramir knew from his vision it was nowhere near as bad as it could have been.

As the threat to Rohan was reduced Aragorn and Faramir were on edge to go to Gondor, both concerned for Boromir and the nation’s fate. It took little persuasion to get King Theoden to bring the armies of Rohan to Gondor, thanks to Eowyn and Eomer’s strong conviction that they would both leave for Gondor regardless of the whereabouts of Rohan’s army. Though Eomer was not happy to see Eowyn ride with them and Faramir was very worried as well, she stood firm and did not let them sway her; she would not leave Faramir’s side nor would she risk her brother falling far from her. The debate on whether or not she should fight with them in the coming battle was postponed till they reached Gondor. Elrond had readily agreed to move his army though Arwen had been left in Edoras, a decision she had fully supported which had eased Legolas’ heart. Together with her were a patrol of guards and skilled bowmen from both Rohan and the Elven armies to ensure the safety of the people left behind tending to the sick and to organize the provisions going from Edoras to the armies. As Legolas would be marching on Gondor, his brother had readily agreed to bring his army to Gondor as well. Also commander Haldir had agreed to move his army, knowing it was the wish of his Queen to aid in this fateful battle for Middle Earth.

Moving the large armies from Rohan towards Minas Tirith took several weeks, slowed down by their sheer force of numbers and the Orcs they ran into underway. Their greatest concern had been that Gondor had been ordered by Denethor to view Rohan as a threat. The last thing they needed was killing the people they wished to save. The armies were lead by the commanders, the reminding members of the Fellowship as well as Eomer and Eowyn. As they had been about to cross into Gondor, they had been met by a small band of rangers. Faramir had greeted them warmly and they had given him a sealed message. . The rangers told them Boromir had pulled the group of rangers aside and had sent them to the border, saying he knew of their loyalty to Faramir and therefore he trusted only them to bring his brother the message he had written. He had furthermore said they should not return to Minas Tirith unless on Aragorn’s order, making Aragorn and Faramir share a look of worry. Boromir’s message had been simple but grim:

_Dearest brother,_

_Osgiliath has been overrun. Mordor plans to attack Minas Tirith. I will attempt a counter attack yet we are horribly outnumbered. Father wishes me to retake Osgiliath…if he makes this an order, I must go. I shall leave your second in command of the rangers as commander of the defence of Minas Tirith; he is a good man, you chose well._

_Bring me a strong army or do not come to Minas Tirith. If the city falls, Mordor will have the run of the land. Do not attempt to retrieve me; I will already be dead. Take Aragorn’s advice on these matters. Withdraw to Rohan; mayhap on the higher grounds, you can make a last stand._

_If I do not see you again, remember my spirit shall always watch over you._

_If you read this, brother, tell Aragorn…he did well._

_Your brother,_

_Boromir_

Aragorn had broken into a smile at Boromir’s greeting to him but it had been a sad kind of smile. They had to hurry. Time was of the essence. Faramir and Aragorn had a shared fear and a shared knowledge; Denethor had always expected nothing less than perfection from his oldest son. Boromir’s defeat at Osgiliath would have thrown the Steward further into darkness. It might just be enough to make him capable of giving an order, which, logically, was a suicide mission but which Denethor probably did not see as such, sure Boromir would be able to get it done.

The news of Gondor’s severe difficulties made Elrond suggest to Aragorn he should bring the Oathbreakers with him to Minas Tirith. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli left to find them and bring them to the city of Kings, while the armies marched onward towards Minas Tirith. The small group of rangers joined them and were now once again under Faramir’s command. The armies arrived at Minas Tirith before Aragorn had returned. They found the city under siege by a large Orc army just as the sun was setting, the battle well under way. They had to act fast, without delay. They might be victorious without Aragorn and his Oarthbreakers, but only with severe losses, a death toll of at least 90% of the men. Still, the armies were made ready for an attack. They decided to split up the armies to attack the Orcs from all sides. Theoden attacked from the east with the main Rohirrum force, Eomer from the south with a smaller band of the Rohirrum soldiers and the three Elven commanders would attack with their Elven armies from the north side. Faramir brought his rangers with him to the west side and chose to try and sneak into the city with his small band of men, wishing to get in touch with his brother and help the internal defences. His goal was to share his knowledge of the Rohirrum and Elven armies’ strategies and thereby allow Gondor to aid them. After being turned down by everyone else, Eowyn, Pippin and Merry came to Faramir and asked if he would allow them to help him. While worried for their safety, Faramir had readily agreed to have the Hobbits in his ranks, having great respect for their courage. He was more hesitant with Eowyn, not wishing to see her wounded. Seeing her hurt look at his hesitation, Faramir realized his denial would hurt more than anything else, and would most likely not stop her anyway so he let her come along. He had smiled at her joy when he had given her his permission; she had literally jumped into his arms and kissed him passionately. It was this wild and untamed side of her, the way it mixed with her control and logic that made her so irresistible to him.

When the armies had started their attack on the Orc army, Faramir sneaked closer to the city with his rangers, the Hobbits and Eowyn. They ran from cover to cover, tree to tree, bending down to make themselves even less visible. He had to fight himself to stop from looking worriedly at Eowyn constantly yet it was the hardest thing he ever had to do; leading her towards danger. He had just found the one who made his life complete; he could not lose her now.

“Lord Faramir, there is a hole in the wall surrounding Minas Tirith to the east, a few feet up, yet reachable. Not many Orcs are there; most have been drawn back to fight the Elven and Rohirrum soldiers,” one of Faramir’s rangers whispered to him after he had silently moved to his right side. Eowyn was at his left side and they were kneeling behind some bushes, looking out at the wall. None of them were on horseback and all wore the green capes of the rangers to help hide them in the darkness and among the trees and vegetation that grew close to the eastern side of the city. Eowyn and the Hobbits had also been given capes to help hide them from prying eyes.

“We move closer, silently. Send six men ahead, use knives or arrows to kill any Orcs before we reach them,” Faramir ordered quietly and the ranger nodded and moved away to carry out his order. Though he did not turn, Faramir knew Eowyn was looking at him, her gaze warm and proud, making him fight the urge to smile despite the danger they were in.

At the signal from one of the rangers ahead that all was safe, Faramir waved behind him and began to move out, the others following him. His heart was pumping wildly in his chest as he drew his sword and began to move but his grip was strong and his gaze was steady. This side of the city did not bear the full attack and was very close to where the city grew into the mountainside. They were moving in what felt like a surreal bubble; there was almost no noise or movement from the intense battle for the city anywhere around them.

Faramir was just starting to think they would reach the wall unnoticed when an Orc nearby cried out. Suddenly, twenty or so Orcs were looking their way. For a fraction of a second, everyone froze but then everything exploded at once. “Get to the wall!” Faramir yelled, beginning to fire arrows at the Orcs while running towards the wall himself. Merry and Pippin, having swords but no bow like Faramir and the rangers, were protected by some of the rangers as they ran towards the wall, making sure no arrow would hit them. Eowyn also had a sword but no bow. In the run for the wall she had fallen behind, and Faramir looked after her, fear for her making him forgetful of his own safety and his progress towards the protection of the wall. He spotted her engaging an Orc, having already slain two others and seeming to be winning this swordfight as well. His moment of relief was short-lived when he saw an Orc aim an arrow at her, taking advantage of her distraction.

“No!” he yelled, fear greater than anything he had ever felt clutching at his heart, and without thinking, he jumped into the line of fire. At the sound of his voice Eowyn looked towards him, her eyes widening in terror when she noticed the arrow moving towards him. It happened so fast no one had time to react. The arrow caught him in the shoulder and the force of it knocked him to the ground. He had known the pain would come but still the sudden impact and sheer force of the pain as it moved through his body made a yell of agony escape his lips. At once several of his rangers surrounded him, creating a protective sphere, firing arrows at the Orcs, killing several. Eowyn ran to Faramir as soon as she had killed the Orc she had been fighting and had sheathed her sword. Faramir had managed to get to his knees when she reached him and she knelt beside him, worry and love shining in her eyes.

“Pull it out,” Faramir gasped, nodding towards the arrow, fighting to get the pain under control; the strain made sweat broke out on his forehead.

Eowyn nodded grimly in reply to his words. “Brace yourself,” she warned and then tore it out with one quick movement. She winced in sympathy as Faramir yelled out in pain when the arrow head tore its way out of his body. The battle that had erupted as they had been discovered had started to attract more Orcs, yet the rangers who stood guard around Faramir and Eowyn didn’t move an inch, willing to give their lives for their commander. Eowyn couldn’t help but feel pride at such fierce loyalty towards her beloved.

“We must hurry,” Eowyn said worriedly, letting the arrow drop to the ground while Faramir gasped for breath. She tore a piece of her plain brown dress and began to bind it around his wound as best as she could. When his wound was bandaged, she put an arm around his waist and guided his nearest arm up to lie over her shoulder so she could maintain a strong grip on him.

“I can walk,” Faramir protested when they were both back on their feet and tore loose from her but still gave her a thankful and warm look. “Move out,” Faramir ordered to the rangers, and with Eowyn at his side, they all resumed their run towards the wall.

“Be careful!” Eowyn protested in concern as she saw him take an arrow to his bow, his face a grimace of pain due to the strain on his injured shoulder.

“I need to be able to fire,” he replied as he did just that, his arrow cutting down an Orc, though he winced in pain at the forced movement to his injured shoulder.

Faramir was so focused on the arrows from the Orcs, he did not see the ones coming from inside the city before Eowyn cried out in pain, having taken an arrow to her left thigh. The force of the arrow forced her backwards and made her stumble.

“Eowyn!” Faramir yelled in concern but was too preoccupied with firing at the nearest Orcs to go to her.

“It’s not bad,” she reassured him though the pain and shock in her voice betrayed that this was the first time she had been injured in battle. A ranger came to her and helped her back to her feet, supporting her weight.

Reassured that Eowyn was taken care of, Faramir turned his attention towards the wall and the rain of arrows they were sending down towards them. “Archers of Minas Tirith, this is Faramir of Gondor. Cease your attack and let us in!” Faramir yelled as they kept moving closer to the wall in an effort to outrun the approaching Orcs. He knew the darkness would have made it hard for the archers up on the wall to see anything except moving dark figures.

The arrows from the city stopped at once and a light appeared at the hole in the wall they had spotted. With agonizing slowness, they managed to reach it and Faramir saw several rangers stand outside the hole, ready to help them through and lay down covering fire.

“Get the Lady to the House of Healing,” Faramir demanded of the ranger supporting her, as they stood outside the opening, ready to enter the city.

“Faramir,” she asked weakly, pained, concern in her voice as she laid a hand on his arm.

“Go, my love. I will follow you as soon as I can,” Faramir vowed, his voice and eyes soft, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze before he kissed her lips softly. He then gently removed her hand from his. His gaze found that of the ranger supporting her. “Go and guard her with your life.”

“I will, my lord,” the ranger vowed and then he helped Eowyn through the hole and into the city. Eowyn cast one last worried look at him over her shoulder but he gave her a reassuring smile. After she had disappeared from sight, he positioned himself beside the hole and helped his rangers through it. He was relieved when Merry and Pippin ran through, both unharmed. Just as the last of Faramir’s rangers was about to go through, he was hit in the back and fell into Faramir’s arms, gasping in pain.

“This is the last of my men,” Faramir said to the rangers standing guard outside the hole with him to indicate anything else that moved outside the wall could and should be cut down. They began to fire one arrow after another, now not having to wait until they were able to identify what it was that was moving around in the darkness before them. With painful difficulty, he managed to drag his wounded man inside the hole, his heart aching in sympathy for the man’s severe injury. It was very likely he would not survive the night. As soon as they were inside the wall, Faramir laid him down on the ground as gently as possible, face down. “Commence firing!” he yelled towards the sky, up towards where the archers stood.

At once arrows began to rain down on the small band of approaching Orcs. The rangers who had laid down covering fire went through the hole as well and began to shoot arrows through it. More men approached Faramir from deeper within the city while the ranger who had held the light for Faramir and his rangers to see to enter the city extinguished it to make it harder for the Orcs to find targets.

“Take this man to the House of Healing,” Faramir ordered to the approaching soldiers, nodding towards his wounded man. Two men nodded and began to do as bid. “Five of you, find something to cover this hole with and thereafter return to your stations,” Faramir ordered before he cast a look at Merry and Pippin who had been left standing just inside the hole in the wall, in the middle of the chaos. They looked uncertain of what to do with themselves, but their gazes were strong and reflected their courage. “Get the Hobbits to the city wall and give them bows and arrows,” he ordered and both Hobbits smiled happily at him, glad that they were not being sent away.

“We will not let you down,” they promised as a soldier led them away and Faramir smiled after them.

“I know.”

When they were out of sight, he turned back to an officer who had appeared on the scene and voiced his greatest concern. “From where is this battle organized? Where is my brother?”

“Lord Boromir was deadly wounded as he, on the Lord Steward’s order, led a doomed attack to reclaim Osgiliath,” the officer replied, his face grim.

“Where is he now?” Faramir asked worriedly, feeling ice take a hold of his heart. He had not felt him die; he could not be dead. He would know if he was dead. He would know.

“I was on duty at the main gate when his horse carried him faithfully back from the deadly battle. He was the only survivor. He was badly wounded and I was about to carry him to the House of Healing when your father demanded I leave him in his chamber,” the officer told him, puzzlement at the order and worry for Boromir clear in his voice.

“He needed a healer at once!” Faramir yelled in outrage, worry and fear making his voice sharp.  
  


“So do you, my lord,” the officer said with concern as he eyed the wound in Faramir’s shoulder. His movements had not helped and the small bandage Eowyn had given him was now stained with blood.

  
“It will wait.” Faramir waved off his concern with his uninjured arm and looked impatiently towards the palace, anxious to find his brother. “Is the situation here under control?”

“The attack has slowed down,” the officer admitted. He was puzzled as to why; if the Orcs had kept up their bombardment, it was likely the city would have fallen within a day, maybe even before daybreak.

“Yes, Rohan and the Elven kingdoms have arrived to aid us,” Faramir began to explain.

“Thank Valar!” the officer interrupted, relief shining on his face and a faint beginning hope taking shape in his eyes. He had, like most Gondorians, assumed all had been lost.

“They attack the Orcs from behind from north, south and east. The Elven warriors are dressed in gold, the markings of the Rohan soldiers all should know. Aid them by intensifying the attacks on the south side; it will leave them open for the greater force we have coming in from the north and east,” Faramir ordered.

“It will be done, my lord,” the officer promised.

Faramir nodded; surely with this information his second in command would be able to lead the defence of the city just as well as he could. As Boromir had said in his letter, he was a good soldier and leader. “Tell your superior and the other officers what you know. And let the people know there is hope; we can win!” Faramir yelled at him before he ran off, heading for the palace. Fear for his brother’s life made him run faster through the city than ever before despite the chaos the bombardment was creating. Still, reaching the palace proved not to be easy as there was fighting in the streets and the Orcs were now also attacking from the air atop their winged allies. He fought his way through with sword and bow, determined not to be stopped before he had seen his brother. When he had almost reached the palace, he felt a sudden sharp pain in his mind, like a thousand souls were in terror and then a sharp flash of light. Then… nothing. Faramir would later figure out he, likely due to the connection the poison and his visions had given him to Sauron, had felt the death of the Orcs by the Oathbreakers; Aragorn had arrived in time. For now though he had no time to consider what it was he had felt as he continued through the city as fast as he could, worry for his brother driving him on. In his concern for Boromir, his own injury was forgotten and he barely felt it. When he reached the White Tree that stood outside the palace, he drew a pained breath of relief. For a second he leaned heavily on his sword, fighting for breath. The short pause made his wound painfully reawaken, and with a grimace, he burst into the front hall of the palace, his sword still in hand.

“Where is my brother?” Faramir demanded to know of the first frightened servant he spotted in the hall.

  
“Your father took him to the burial sight to burn him,” the servant said, his eyes filled with regret and sadness.

“He is truly gone then,” Faramir whispered, agonized, and at the thought, he felt all his energy and will to go on start to fade away. His wound began to pump in agony, and for a moment, the world seemed to swirl before his eyes. Yet why had he not seen it, felt it? Boromir felt alive to him. He did. He could not be imagining it; the feel of Boromir’s essence seemed so real to him.

  
”He… he lived still when your father asked me to quickly bandage his wounds and dress him in proper funeral clothes,” the servant admitted in terror at the thought of what was to happen to the Steward’s oldest son.

“What?!” Faramir asked, enraged, his energy returning to him along with fear, anger and worry. He pointed his sword at the servant’s throat, who got a terrified look on his face, too afraid to move or even speak. “And you let him do this?” Faramir asked, his eyes and voice dark and deadly.

“He is the Steward, my Lord. He would not listen to me,” the servant explained, frightened. “Please, do not kill me,” he begged.

“You should have helped him regardless, yet luckily for you, I have no time to teach you a lesson… I shall leave that to my brother,” Faramir said darkly; some orders should simply not be obeyed. He hurried out through the large wooden doors once more and begun to run towards the funeral hall.

“Faramir!” Aragorn’s voice stopped him as the older man rode up beside him on the horse Boromir had given him all those years ago. His face was worried and worn, his blade bloodied as he put it back in its scabbard. He had entered the city as soon as the Oarthbreakers had destroyed all the Orcs near, in and around Minas Tirith. An officer inside the city walls had told him where Faramir had gone and he had gone after him, thinking Faramir might know where Boromir was. It troubled him deeply that he had not seen him during the battle; he knew Boromir would have been on the front end, leading the battle, if he had been unhurt. As he had ridden towards the palace, Aragorn had refused to even consider the very real possibility that Boromir might have perished.

“Aragorn!” Faramir breathed in relief at seeing him unharmed. Aragorn rode alongside him and he reached out his unhurt arm to him. “To the funeral house. Father has Boromir there; he is still alive!” Faramir said, adding the last when he saw the shocked and shattered look in Aragorn’s eyes and face at his first few words. Faramir got a grip on Aragorn’s wrist with his good arm and Aragorn stood still long enough for Faramir to, with Aragorn’s help, swing up behind the older man on the horse.

“The Witchking has killed King Theoden and tried to kill Eowyn when she was on the way to the house of Healing. He managed to kill your ranger as he was protecting her…” Aragorn began to explain while they rode faster than the wind towards the funeral hall.

“Is she well?” Faramir asked worriedly, sorrow for his lost man being overshadowed by his concern for her. He leaned against Aragorn, holding his good arm around his waist.

“Yes. With help from Merry, she killed the Witchking.”

Faramir smiled proudly despite his worry. “That’s my woman!”

Aragorn gave a small smile at his words though his whole focus was on Boromir. Before he could reply, they had reached the large wooden door to the funeral hall and Aragorn made the horse rear and kick the door in. They rode as fast as they could through the long corridor of the hall and stopped before a large stake at the end of the corridor, both frowning in concern when they saw Boromir laying unmoving on top of it, Denethor standing beside him on the funeral pyre, pouring oil over his hair and body. He looked old and worn, his eyes shining with an unnatural glow. The darkness had completely strangled his spirit; there was no hope left in him, no light.

“Boromir!” Faramir yelled in fear and jumped from the horse, Aragorn giving him a hand down, holding onto his uninjured arm.

“Stay away from him. It is you who have corrupted him, made him weak! First he fails to bring me the Ring; lets the Hobbits go to Mordor, and then he fails to secure Osgiliath. Nay, my true son died long ago!” Denethor yelled furiously, holding a torch in his hands and waving it dangerously in Faramir’s general direction. Fearing for Boromir’s safety, Faramir froze inches from his brother, yet close enough to see his brother’s chest rise and fall in ragged breaths.

“He lives still!” Faramir said with relief, tears of joy forming in his eyes as he and Aragorn shared a look of relief over this fact, as well as pride at the knowledge that Boromir had helped Sam and Frodo. The knowledge that Sam and Frodo had come this far at least was a great comfort.

At the news that Boromir was alive, Aragorn sighed in relief and he felt balance and calm return to him. His eyes came to rest on Denethor as he was the threat to Boromir’s life but his words were to Faramir, composed and strong. “Help him down.”

“Touch him and I burn us both! He lived valiantly; you shall not make him a coward in death!” Denethor screamed, his eyes filled with madness, and again he waved the torch as a weapon in front of him.

“Father, please. I too am your son and I swear to you… Boromir is alive!” Faramir pleaded, his voice urgent and filled with emotions. _Just this once let him listen to me, let my love for him sway him_ , Faramir prayed with desperation.

“My son is dead. I wish now….” Denethor paused, his voice fading away, sorrow and regret clear in his voice.

Faramir knew what he would have said. “You think Boromir dead and would rather I have perished in his stead,” Faramir finished his sentence for him, his face a mask of hurt, his voice soft and agonized.

“Denethor,” Aragorn drew the Steward’s attention as he spoke to him, his voice and eyes strong and unyielding, “you are not yourself, and it is on account of this, I give you this chance. Step down and away from Boromir or I will force you to do so.”

“You wish only to steal my throne, the throne that rightfully belonged to Boromir!” Denethor yelled furiously and raised the torch. His eyes shone with madness and despair as he made a move to drop the torch and ignite the funeral pyre, with himself still on it.

“Father! No!” Faramir yelled and was to reach for him but he knew he would never make it. Instead he ran the last distance to Boromir and threw himself over his unconscious body in a futile attempt to shield him.

“No… the throne that is and always has been mine to rule as King!” Aragorn said strongly, knowing it was true, having no more doubts. What insecurities surrounding his own fate he had left faded away in this moment. Just then Denethor let the torch drop and the fire ignited into hungry flames at once.

With skill learned from the Elves, Aragorn reached for his knife in his right boot and threw it at Denethor, hitting him in his right shoulder. The power of the blow made the Steward fall off the stake, fire eating at his clothes yet he did not seem to care. Faramir had managed to drag and roll Boromir to the floor and quickly killed the flames burning his clothes before he gathered his brother into his embrace, drawing him close to his chest while sitting on the floor. Boromir moaned and turned his head from side to side and Faramir stroked his damp hair with his hand on his uninjured side, feeling Boromir’s brow was hot with fever.

“Hush, brother. Do not fear. All is well now. You are safe,” Faramir whispered, his voice filled with love and relief, tears falling down his cheeks. With his relief the adrenalin that had prevented him from feeling his injury began to wear off and waves of pain ran through his body, making him grimace.

“Boromir? Boromir lives?!” Denethor asked shakily, reaching a hand towards his sons. An agony that had nothing to do with the flames now coming closer to his body, eating through his clothes, entered Denethor’s eyes, and for the first time in a very long time his eyes seemed clear. “By the Valar. My sons! What have I done? What have I done?!” he mumbled, agonized. Before anyone could react, he got to his feet and ran past Aragorn who was still on his horse and ready should Denethor try anything more. Denethor ran out the building and all the way out over the edge, falling hundreds of feet to his death, a flaming body of pain, his dying scream echoing in the room and making Faramir shiver. For now though he had no tears for his father; maybe when the intensity of what had just happened had subsided and Boromir was well, he would be able to mourn what could have been, if not what had been.

“Boromir,” Aragorn muttered in relief and happiness as he jumped from his horse and knelt beside the brothers, dismissing Denethor from his thoughts for now. He laid a hand on either side of Boromir’s face and gently kissed his forehead while Boromir’s back rested against his brother’s chest. “I will heal you, to this I swear,” Aragorn whispered in Boromir’s ear before he drew back and met Faramir’s soft and knowing look, but also saw the deep pain and exhaustion in his eyes.

“You men!” Aragorn addressed the men who had stood around in the chamber holding torches, having done nothing while the Steward had prepared to burn his son alive and still did nothing, simply observing. There was barely controlled anger in Aragorn’s voice as he spoke to them, his eyes aflame as he looked at them. “Be useful and assist Faramir and Boromir to the House of Healing. I have not forgotten that you were willing to stand by and let one of Gondor’s finest sons burn, knowing full well this was an order you should not have followed. Obey me now and I might spare your lives.”

The men moved quickly, terror in their eyes, knowing well their deed deserved nothing less. With extreme care, the men helped Faramir to his feet and put Boromir on the wooden stretcher they had used to carry him to the house. Faramir let the guard who had helped him up keep a supporting arm around his waist but held his brother’s hand on the stretcher.

As they were to pass Aragorn, he softly reached out and stroked Boromir’s hair, a warm look in his eyes as he did so. “I shall come to the House of Healing momentarily,” Aragorn told Faramir as he drew back and Faramir nodded.

“Thank you,” Faramir said warmly and Aragorn knew he meant for more than this.

“Stay with him till then.”  
  


“Always.”

Boromir stirred as the men were to take him away and his eyes fluttered. “Little One? Is that you?” he muttered weakly, unconsciously using the old childhood nickname for Faramir. His memories were unclear and his world was nothing but pain and confusion.

“It is I, Brother,” Faramir calmed him, smiling in relief at him while he squeezed his hand a little to reassure him through touch as well as words.

“Is… is Gondor…?” Boromir fought to stay awake, fighting the waves of pain. He tried weakly to get up.

“Hush. All is well, Gondor is safe,” Faramir calmed him and gently pushed him back down on the stretcher.

“Rest, my friend. I will come to you soon,” Aragorn said softly, having to restrain himself from betraying the depth of his true emotions and desires right there.

Boromir looked in relief up at him, and for a moment, his eyes flashed pure affection, almost making Aragon gasp in joyful surprise. “It is you…You are well,” he said softly, his eyes closing, a smile playing over his lips, relief and joy clearly written on his face. “You are both well.”

Unable to hold back any longer, Aragorn bent down and placed the briefest and softest of kisses to Boromir’s lips. “Seeing you well convinces me the Valar listens to my prayers,” Aragorn whispered softly, heartfelt. Seeing Boromir again, knowing he would be well brought him such relief after months of agonizing worrying that it almost made him dizzy. He kissed Boromir’s forehead and then drew back, ignoring the guards’ looks of surprise and shock at this tenderness.

“Aragorn,” Boromir muttered with a soft smile on his lips. He looked content and relaxed as if Aragorn’s kisses and the sound of his voice had brought joy to his very soul. Aragorn feverishly prayed it was so. Before another word could be spoken, Boromir lost consciousness again.

“Go,” Aragorn said softly to Faramir as he laid a calming hand on his uninjured shoulder. Faramir nodded and smiled encouragingly at him before he nodded to the men to indicate they should move on. Aragorn looked after them for a few seconds, feeling his heartbeat and respiration slowly returning to normal after the intense battle and the fear for Boromir’s safety. Boromir was well, he would be all right. That was all that mattered.

Aragorn looked one last time at the stake as it burned to the ground and shook his head in regret for lives wasted and battles lost. “From the greatest love comes the greatest despair,” Aragorn said softly to himself. Desire to be with Boromir made his thoughts return to the present. He jumped back on his horse and turned it around. He rode out into the city to find Gandalf, Eomer, Haldir, Elrond and the other commanders to give orders on how to tend to the wounded, bury the dead, and to hear the estimate in regard to the death toll. All this would have to be arranged before he would be able to go to the House of Healing and sit by Boromir’s bedside, like his heart was telling him to do.


	28. Which Path To Travel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Boromir talk about the future

## Which Path To Travel

Boromir slowly returned to consciousness. He knew there was pain, confusion, demands and he did not wish to return. Here in the nothingness, he was at peace, at ease. Yet there was a voice, a beloved voice that would not let him go. Every time he slipped away, it would urge him on, every time he considered giving up, it would speak of love and peace, promising a better peace, a greater peace, out there, amongst the hurt and the pain than what he found inside the blankness. He did not know why, but he trusted that voice. He did not recall his own name but he recalled that voice, and he knew the owner of it would never harm him, would never speak falsely to him.

Boromir opened his eyes and saw he was in his own bed in his chambers in the palace. His left arm was bandaged and so was his chest and right shoulder. Despite this, the pain and discomfort faded into the background when his eyes settled on the man sitting at his bedside. He was washing his face tenderly with a moist cloth, making him feel loved. “Aragorn,” he said softly, warmly, his voice hoarse from lack of use. He felt at ease just by looking at him. His face and eyes revealed more than they ever had; in his weakened state, he had not yet raised any barriers to hide his emotions.

“You are awake,” Aragorn said with a smile and laid the cloth he had used on Boromir’s face back in the water basin that stood on the bedside table. “Here.” He handed him a goblet of water and held it to his lips, helping Boromir sit up in bed so he could drink. Boromir drank greedily, realizing how thirsty he was. With his uninjured hand, he helped to hold the goblet to his lips until Aragorn removed it and sat it back on the nightstand.

“Thank you.” He leaned back against the pillows and felt much better now. He focused on trying to locate the aches in his body to estimate how long he would have to keep to his bed.

“I have bandaged your torso to hold the wound in your right shoulder. Your ribs were bruised and three were broken, the bandage also holds them. You have some minor burns on your left arm and on your back. I have given them some ointment and bandaged them. Those on your back ended up half covered by the bandage for your ribs,” Aragorn told him and stroked his cheek tenderly as he smiled.

Boromir gave Aragorn a searching look, surprised but not adverse to the tender caress. Aragorn seemed… happy. At peace. There was an insecurity, a longing in his eyes, but he seemed more at ease than he had ever seen the older man before. He could also see he had washed and changed, his clothes, the finely weaved and decorated robes fitting a King though he wore no crown or other jewellery.

“Is my brother unharmed?” Boromir asked with only a little concern. Aragorn would not seem this happy if Faramir were in danger.

“He was wounded in battle, in the shoulder. He is recovering nicely,” Aragorn calmed him as he withdrew his hand from Boromir’s face, an almost guilty look in his eyes. He laid his hands in his lap as if he found it hard not to touch the younger man.

“How fares the war?” Boromir asked when Aragorn’s silence lasted. He wasn’t sure why, but the removal of Aragorn’s touch from his skin made him feel cold and lonely, as if something was missing. 

“The battle for Minas Tirith was won six days ago, much thanks to assistance from our human and Elven neighbours. In the battle, Faramir, the Princess Eowyn of Rohan and two Hobbits who travelled with us were wounded. They were all taken to the House of Healing and are recovering nicely. The day after, I went to the Black Gates with the remains of the armies from Gondor, Rohan and the Elven Kingdoms. As we reached the Gates, ready to face the Orcs coming from Mordor, the One Ring was destroyed, and with it, Sauron and all his Orcs,” Aragorn told him, the relief he had felt then shining through in his words. Eowyn had become a Princess after the death of her uncle and her brother’s claim to the throne as the new King of Rohan.

“Then Sam and Frodo succeeded,” Boromir said with a smile, letting himself sink deeper into the covers as his muscles relaxed at this news.

“Yes. They are resting in the palace, a few chambers from here,” Aragorn told him. He hesitated but then asked, needing to know, “What happened after Faramir left with me?”

Boromir’s face grew serious and a dark shadow fell over it. “I saw the vision, the dream Faramir had as well. Yet I saw it differently; I saw it, I lived it… I felt it. I saw my own death and the lonely existence I would have led. I saw the One Ring and I saw how it would become my downfall.” Though there was pain and guilt in his voice, Boromir met Aragorn’s gaze steadily.

“Yet you met Sam and Frodo…. They had the Ring,” Aragorn pressed softly, no condemnation in his voice, even if he should have been tempted. Even he had felt tempted at times during the walk from Rivendell, though he had never acted on it.

Boromir nodded. “Father ordered me to claim the Ring should it come to me and sent me to Osgiliath to defend our outer borders. There I met the Hobbits and I recalled my brother’s words and my dream. I knew as soon as I saw the Little Ones that they had the Ring. I asked the one without the Ring to step forward and speak with me, and the other to hide from my sight. Sam told me of their mission and I guided them on their way, warning their distrustful guide, Gollum, to behave. I let them go without ever once looking at the Hobbit who carried the Ring,” Boromir explained seriously, his tone grim.

“Wise decision,” Aragorn complimented.

Boromir shook his head and smiled kind of sadly. “No. Necessary for a man who would have been tempted.”

“You would have withstood it,” Aragorn protested, unable to believe Boromir would truly have acted on the temptation. Yet he also knew when it came to Boromir, his judgment would forever be coloured by his love for him.

“No. We both know I would not,” Boromir said softly with a shake of his head, stating a fact.

Silence settled between them, neither knowing what to say until Aragorn broke the silence with more news. “I tended to your wounds before I left for the Black Gates, yet you drifted in and out of consciousness till today, staying awake only long enough to drink and eat a little,” Aragorn told him, the worry and anxiousness he had felt shining bright in his eyes, despite his healing touch that had told him Boromir would make a full recovery. “Faramir kept vigil at your bedside whenever Princess Eowyn did not draw him away. He felt torn, and in the end, I had you put in a bed beside the Princess in the House of Healing so he did not have to choose. I had a bed placed for him between you and the Princess for he was injured as well and needed to rest, yet his concern for her and you gave him little of that.” There was a hint of both fondness and annoyance in his words; the first born from his affection for the younger man, and the latter came from the annoyance healers always feel when their patients refuses to do as they are told.

“Is the Princess healing well?” Boromir asked with concern, not wishing Faramir to get hurt and mourn a woman he obviously cared for. He recalled the Princess from a few visits they had made during childhood though he had not spent much time with her. Instead, he had spent his time debating sword fighting skills and horsemanship with her brother. 

  
”Her injuries were painful but not life-threatening, and this morning I moved her and you to the palace. She should be able to move about a little today while you, my friend, may have to wait a few weeks,” Aragorn told him, his tone firm but kind.

Boromir smiled, caught between pride, joy and a feeling of bittersweet sorrow. “Faramir has found a lady to care for.” Faramir had grown up. He was no longer a child; had not been for a long time. He did not really need him, need his protection, the way he had before. Boromir could not help but wonder if there would still be a place for him in Faramir’s life now.

Aragorn nodded and smiled warmly as he thought of them. “Yes, and a special one at that. Faramir was here earlier but left to go sit with her for a while.”

Boromir nodded, torn between feeling happy for his brother and feeling like he was losing him. “That is good. I am happy for him,” he said softly, his smile almost true.

“You will always be his brother, and as such always be in his heart. There is no choice; he can have you both, and I have told him as much, for he had the same fear,” Aragorn said softly, insightfully, correctly guessing the reason for the shadows in Boromir’s eyes. He laid his hand over Boromir’s uninjured one on top of the covers and gave it a gentle squeeze. Their eyes met, and for a second or two, time froze. Aragorn’s eyes reflected affection and warmth, Boromir’s surprise and warm contentment. Aragorn seemed to remember and withdrew his hand, breaking the moment.

Once again Boromir regretted the loss of contact. “Thank you,” he said warmly, heartfelt, feeling at ease now, his fears washed away in the light of Aragorn’s loving tone and warm touch.

“There is something I have to tell you,” Aragorn began seriously then paused, not sure how to continue. “What is the last thing you remember of your father?”

Boromir frowned, trying to concentrate. The healing herbs in his body and the sudden shake back to full consciousness had left him in an almost unreal bubble, his memories and worries far away. “After I had sent Sam and the other Hobbit, Frodo, on their way, Orcs attacked a few days after. We were outnumbered and had to withdraw to the city with heavy losses. I reported our status to my father and told him we should prepare the city for a last stand. I requested we light the signal for Rohan and send out messengers to any and all countries we could reach, human and Elven alike, which might be sympathetic to our suffering. Anyone at all. Without a strong army I knew we had no chance of saving Minas Tirith, and if she fell, Gondor would as well,” Boromir let him know, his eyes reflecting remembered distress and the loss of many good soldiers.

“What happened then?” Aragorn asked softly, his eyes and voice filled with compassion. He had always known by leaving Boromir behind, he may have been spared a death far from Gondor, but to survive he would have had to fight intense battles every day on his own. For a brief moment Aragorn wished he could have stayed behind with him and helped ease his burdens though he knew it had not been possible.

“I have never seen Father like that. He flew into a rage, said I was not Boromir, not his son, that I had failed him,” Boromir admitted, his voice pained as memories haunted him. Denethor’s words had hurt worse than anything he had ever experienced. The powerful slap in the face Denethor had given him to intensify his accusation had seemed to burn his skin like acid; all Denethor’s pain and frustration had gone into that one blow.

“He was not himself,” Aragorn comforted, not sure what else to say. He had never liked the man, but he understood the bond of family – both the one of blood and the one you chose to create.

“Suddenly he seemed to lose all hope… all power. He sank to the floor and mumbled that all hope had died with Boromir. I tried to tell him I was Boromir and the fire returned to his eyes. He refused to call any kind of reinforcements and said if I was truly Boromir, I should prove it. I left him and began to arrange for our defence of Minas Tirith, but I knew it was hopeless.” Boromir paused for a moment. “I wrote a note to Faramir,” he went on as if he had not spoken of the battle, his eyes far away and haunted as if reliving the whole ordeal again.

“He got it.”  
  


Boromir nodded, his eyes regaining their focus and his voice regaining its strength. “Good. I am sad to say, it was first when I returned to Minas Tirith after Osgiliath’s fall that I realized my father had ordered all incoming messengers from other nations shot. He apparently feared they were spies. My suggestion to send for help, therefore, did not go over well. My father had the tower we needed to signal Rohan destroyed, and ordered the palace guard to stop all outgoing messengers and investigate their messages. I knew I could trust the rangers to get the message to Faramir when he crossed into Gondor,” Boromir explained grimly.

“Faramir sent a Rohirrum rider to Gondor with a message to you. He was shot down. Did you try to send a messenger to Rohan, for we received none?” Aragorn asked, seeing things here had happened almost exactly the way he had feared, though he was relieved to see and hear that Boromir had not fallen into shadow like his father had, for that had been his greatest fear.

“Father grew more paranoid by the day. He had a guard assigned to follow me around to be sure I did not betray his orders. I tried to have a message to Rohan smuggled out but it was intercepted, the courier killed. My father summoned me and waved the letter I had written in my face, saying it was treason, and proof I was not Boromir. I argued with him but it was no use. By the end of it, he ordered me to reclaim Osgiliath to prove I was who I said I was and I had no choice but to go,” Boromir told him, his voice soft and agonized as he recalled the ugly argument he’d had with his father, all traces of warmth gone from his father’s eyes. There had been only darkness there, darkness and despair. He had never wished that to be the last memory, his last reminder, of his father, yet when he had left for Osgiliath, he had known it was a suicide mission.

“This is the last you remember?” Aragorn asked sympathetically.

“During the attack on Osgiliath, I saw my men fall one by one, men I had sworn to defend and lead to the best of my abilities… I let them die,” Boromir whispered, pained, guilt tearing at his heart and soul. This was his last memory till he had awakened today; the sight of his men’s deaths, the sound of their dying screams and the smell of their blood.

“Nay… your father did. You did what you had to do,” Aragorn said softly, intensely, trying to force this truth into Boromir’s very soul with the strength of his conviction.

Boromir gave a small grateful smile for Aragorn’s words. “Still… I should have done more… fought harder. I knew Father was slipping away, I knew, for I felt the same shadow try to claim me,” Boromir said softly, a look of remembered despair shadowing his face.

“How did you escape it?” Aragorn didn’t want to admit how worried he had been for Boromir’s mental health. He had been alone, surrounded by darkness and despair. For the first time ever, he had been without his brother, and the light his mere presence brought to his soul. He had known their victory over Sauron would have driven many a shadow away, but he had still braced himself in case Boromir, when he awoke, would need further assurance that hope and light had returned and was here to stay. 

Boromir looked him in the eyes and smiled warmly. “I read your letter, and through your words, I felt your love, your hope, and I knew as long as you lived, as long as Faramir lived, there was still hope.” His smile faded and his eyes became haunted. “Though my father claimed you both dead, I would do neither until I saw your dead bodies with my very eyes.” He paused and his voice became raw and soft, reliving the terror and agony of those days when he had feared he would lose them both. “Then… then I would have believed… then I would have let the shadow claim me, for I would have known… all was lost, all had fallen to ruin,” Boromir said, his voice hoarse, his emotions raw. Remembered despair shone in the depth of his green eyes, now moist with unshed tears.

“All would not have been lost. You would have been here,” Aragorn whispered, a lump in his throat, sympathy and compassion shining in his eyes. His letter had helped him keep the darkness at bay like he had prayed it would. Dared he even hope…. Could Boromir be feeling the same way he was?

  
“By my brother’s and your love alone. I saw what future should have been mine,” he said softly, his tone warm and grateful, his dark mood vanishing in the face of Aragorn’s soothing presence.

  
“Nay. What could have been… never what should have been,” Aragorn said strongly, his voice filled with certainty. He shook his head as he took Boromir’s uninjured hand and held it close to his heart to emphasize how important Boromir was to him.

Boromir smiled warmly and reached his other hand up to stroke Aragorn’s cheek, ignoring the pain the movement brought him, in this moment, unable to feel it, memorized by the look in Aragorn’s eyes. The touch seemed natural to him; in the moment there were no barriers between them. “Only in my brother’s eyes have I ever seen such love and devotion as what I see now in yours.” He frowned as he withdrew his hand from Aragorn’s cheek, a look of puzzlement in his eyes. “Yet still… your eyes… they shine with a different light than his….”

  
Realizing he was betraying himself and not ready to explain just yet, Aragorn smiled reassuringly, and laid Boromir’s hand back on the cover, fighting down the feeling of sorrow in his body from the loss of any contact with the younger man. “Boromir, you were badly injured during the attack on Osgiliath but reached Minas Tirith. Your father… he thought you dead and had prepared a funeral pyre,” Aragorn explained as gently as he could, forcing his thoughts back to the subject at hand.

Boromir simply nodded, his expression closed. “That explains the burns. I was wondering how I had gotten them.”

Aragorn looked at him, worried by his calm acceptance. “Your father died in the battle for Minas Tirith,” Aragorn said, trying to soften the blow. It was not a lie… but it was purposefully misleading. He would be lying if he said he mourned the death of the Steward, but he could feel sorrow for what could have been.

“How did he truly die?” Boromir asked, no emotion in his voice and eyes as he looked at Aragorn, not even curiosity shining there. Aragorn wasn’t really surprised Boromir had known he was not telling everything; he had always been able to read him. He should have known Boromir would wish the truth, no matter how painful.

“He stood with the torch, ready to burn you both alive on the pyre. I hit him with my dagger in his shoulder and he fell off the pyre. Faramir got you off the pyre and extinguished the fire burning in your clothes. Denethor seemed to come to himself and regretted what he had done, to both of you. He ran out of the burial hall and out over the cliff.”

“He killed himself,” Boromir concluded, showing no grief in his words or expression but simply stating a fact.

Aragorn nodded. “Yes.” Silence fell between them before Aragorn had to ask, “You do not mourn him?”

“I mourn what he once was, I mourn a man who was a great leader and who held this nation together. I mourned the death of my father the day Faramir left for Rivendell. That day - I see now - was the day what was left of my father died as the One Ring was mentioned, and shadows killed what was left of hope and light within him.” He paused before he softly added, “What died that night… was not my father.”

Aragorn nodded grim agreement. A lot of Denethor’s true strength and power had been twisted over the years, in the end, so much so that there had been little left of the true Steward.

Silence fell again before Boromir softly said, his eyes avoiding Aragorn’s, “Sometimes at night… over the years as I felt him fade from me… I wondered… feared, that same madness should take my soul.” He paused before he added quietly, his words barely above a whisper, “Faramir was never much alike to him; always possessing our mother’s gentleness, depth and grace. I have his strength… I have his weaknesses.”

Aragorn shook his head in strong denial. “That will never happen.”

Boromir looked up at him filled with hope; Aragorn had always been able to bring him hope. “How do you know when I do not?” Boromir asked miserably though still assured by Aragorn’s certain tone.

“Because I will not let it happen,” Aragorn said strongly.

“If it should, will you give me your oath that you will take my life before I become something I am not? Before I hurt Faramir, you or anyone else?” Boromir asked, terror flashing in his eyes and fear in his voice; fear of becoming like his father who in the end had proved capable of not only hurting his sons but even attempting to take a son’s life.

Aragorn had never seen Boromir afraid before but it was clear he was afraid now. “You will not fall into shadow. I will chase the shadows away,” Aragorn promised, his words confident but soft, his eyes filled with compassion and warmth.

“Give me your oath, my friend, my King… I need to hear it,” Boromir pled and Aragorn nodded agreement, unable to deny him anything.

“You have my word, yet I know this oath I need never fulfil. You are not your father.” Aragorn had never doubted this and he never would.

  
“Thank you,” Boromir said sincerely, peace washing over his soul as he had certainty he would not be allowed to fall into shadow should his own strength fail him.

Before they could speak more, the door to Boromir’s chamber opened and Faramir appeared. He smiled at Aragorn in greeting but then his smile widened and his whole face lit up when he saw Boromir was awake. “Brother!” he said happily and went to him.

Aragorn stood up to give him room and Faramir gave his brother an awkward one-armed embrace since he now had his right arm in a sling to help the shoulder wound heal, mindful of Boromir’s bandages as he touched him. He had washed and dressed lightly in a loose white shirt and warm brown pants.

“Faramir. My heart is eased and glad to see you well,” Boromir said with a wide smile as Faramir drew back from him. “Or healing well at least,” he added, his smile not dimming, though a faint shadow of worry was in his eyes as he nodded toward Faramir’s sling.

“It is merely an arrow wound. It will heal in a matter of weeks,” Faramir calmed him, still smiling in happiness at seeing his brother awake. He seated himself near the head of Boromir’s bed while Aragorn seated himself on the bed behind Faramir.

“Good,” Boromir said, relieved.

“When you did not wake up, I began to worry,” Faramir admitted, relief shining in his eyes.

“Faramir?” a soft female voice asked from the door, and they all turned to see Eowyn standing in the doorway. Dressed in a beautiful long, but loose, white dress so there was no pressure on her still healing body, she looked stunning, her long hair tied at her neck. The injuries in her leg and her torso from her battle with the Witchking were covered by the dress, and only the strain in her face, the pain in her eyes, and the whiteness of her skin betrayed she was far from fully recovered.

“Eowyn!” Faramir jumped up and helped her to sit at Boromir’s bedside where he had just been sitting, she facing him while he remained standing in front of her. “You should not be up on your own. Aragorn said you could sit and read, mayhap walk a little escorted but no more than an hour or so a day,” he said worried, in his concern forgetting there was anyone else in the room but them.

Eowyn smiled at his concern and briefly squeezed his hand on his uninjured side. “I just visited my brother. His injuries were minor and he is now starting to organize his return to Rohan,” she told him.

“Princess Eowyn, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Boromir said with a smile before Faramir could voice more concerns. He was happy and amused to see his brother’s affection, and hers in kind.

“Oh, my apologies,” Faramir blushed, his concern for her causing him to have forgotten proper protocol. “Eowyn, may I present my brother, Boromir, Steward of Gondor,” he introduced, the title coming as naturally as breathing to him after having said it many times in the last few days.

Boromir fought down surprise at the title but it was still reflected in his eyes. The moment Denethor had died he had automatically become the new Steward. It just took him a moment or two to truly accept it.

“Boromir, may I present Eowyn, Princess of Rohan,” Faramir went on, his gaze moving from his brother to Eowyn. Unlike Boromir, Faramir had had several days in which to get used to Eowyn’s new title, his father’s death, and consequently Boromir’s new title.

Eowyn rose and turned towards Boromir. She made a small curtsy before the bed as well as her injuries allowed her. “The pleasure is mine,” Eowyn said and caught hold of his uninjured hand.

He brought her hand to his lips, kissing it softly in polite acceptance of her curtsy. “I apologize I cannot rise and greet you properly,” he said with some amusement as she withdrew her hand.

“I understand perfectly.” She smiled back before she added, “Faramir speaks highly of you.”

“He exaggerates,” Boromir said with a warm and teasing smile at his brother.

“I do not!” Faramir protested with faked shock but then smiled. “Mayhap a little,” he admitted with a grin.

Boromir gave them both a warm look before he said, “You made a fine choice… both of you.” His eyes settled on her briefly before they returned to Faramir. “If you seek my blessing you have it,” he added softly, happy to see Faramir this relaxed, his eyes filled with warmth and love. If Eowyn gave him this, he would have approved her even if she had been a kitchen maid.

“Thank you,” Faramir said warmly, heartfelt, and took Boromir’s uninjured hand and kissed it like a Lord would his Sire, making a small bow. The gesture moved Boromir and made him smile. Faramir drew back again and noticed with worry that Eowyn looked rather pale. She needed to get some rest. “By your leave,” he said formally, his eyes shifting between the two men, not sure whom to ask, the man about to be crowned King or the man officially in charge of Gondor.

“You may leave. I will see you later,” Boromir said as he, with a look at Aragorn, saw he would remain silent.

Faramir smiled at them both, joy at seeing them well making his eyes shine like stars. He escorted Eowyn out the door, his uninjured arm wrapped securely around her waist. He started to guide her back towards her room, voicing concerns for her health all the way down the corridor that she countered with warm amusement.

“Did he talk of a day for the wedding with you?” Boromir asked Aragorn as soon as the young couple had disappeared and the door had fallen softly shut behind them. He was still smiling fondly at his brother’s happiness.

Aragorn turned his attention from having watched them leave to Boromir. He, too, was smiling for Faramir’s happiness. “He spoke of the coming summer. Princess Eowyn wishes to return to Rohan with her brother when he leaves in a few days. Her brother, Eomer, is now King of Rohan and there is much he needs to do. Legolas will return with him and bring Arwen here to stay some time before my coronation… which King Eomer, of course, will also attend,” he explained.

“Arwen? The Rivendell Princess he loves?” Boromir asked, remembering what Aragorn had told him during the few days they had shared before Aragorn had left with Faramir for Rivendell. He hadn’t had time to tell him much about his life in Rivendell, but Boromir had been relieved to know he had lived well and been happy. Boromir had never truly shared his father’s poor opinion of the Elven race, and with their great help in concluding the War and protecting Aragorn and Faramir, they now had his loyalty guaranteed. During Aragorn’s time with the Elves, Legolas had obviously become an important part of his life, and the affection between them was undeniable. When Boromir had heard the Elf was in love with Princess Arwen, and he had seen how he had taken good care of both his brother and Aragorn during the War, any jealousy he might have had faded away. The fact that Legolas was in love with the Princess had been an important factor to the loss of his resentment towards the Elf.

Aragorn nodded, unaware of Boromir’s inner musings. “Yes.”

“Come next summer Faramir will also be of age to marry,” Boromir said almost to himself. “We could have the wedding here at the citadel and invite dignitaries from far and wide….” Boromir began, thinking out loud. Then he stopped himself, remembering by then he would no longer be a part of the ruling family of Gondor and neither would Faramir. The thought brought him no sorrow; he knew Aragorn was the rightful King of Gondor. It did, however, mean he would need to learn a new role, a new place. “I mean… with your permission, of course, Your Majesty.”

“Please, do not do that,” Aragorn plead, wincing at the formality and distance the words created between them. “I will take the throne in a few weeks, when you are healed enough to attend. Everyone who has helped this victory come to pass, Kings, nobility, and warriors, who have made this victory possible like you, your brother, Eowyn, Eomer, Legolas, Arwen, Elrond, Haldir, the Hobbits and many more will travel here to be able to attend.” Aragorn paused before he went on, his voice filled with certainty and gratitude, his expression warm. “You and your brother will always be kin to me. I wish to name you Steward to the King, second only to me, and I wish to name Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Lord of Emyn Arnen as reward for all he has done.” His expression grew serious as he added, “This victory would not have been possible without him.”

“He will like that,” Boromir said with a nod and a smile, moved by the titles Aragorn would bestow upon his brother and himself. He was starting to fight exhaustion, and his wounds were beginning to ache so much, it was starting to distract him, reminding him he was far from healed. To ease some of the strain in his body, he allowed himself to sink fully into the pillows, at ease now that his insecurities and fears had been addressed.

Aragorn helped him lay back more comfortably and a fond and proud smile graced his lips. “When you are better, I will tell you just how much he did. He organized a defence of Rohan from Edoras with the help of Princess Eowyn, having seen where Saruman would attack in a vision.”

“Saruman is with Sauron?” Boromir asked surprised, the shock forcing his exhaustion back for a little while longer.

“Was. He is dead now.”

“Good.” Boromir relaxed a little at this news. “Still, I would never have guessed it. I thought him a friend of Gandalf.” He frowned. “Gandalf **is** still on our side, is he not?”

“Yes.” Aragorn calmed him with a smile and Boromir smiled back.

“Just making sure. Power corruption could have turned out to be purely Wizard related,” he teased and Aragorn smiled.

They sat in silence for a while before Aragorn spoke again, knowing he had to say this now before he let things go too far and he betrayed himself in some way without first explaining how he felt. “Boromir, I wish to confess something to you, something important.”

Boromir nodded, a guarded look in his eyes at Aragorn’s serious tone and the nervous look in his eyes. “Go on.”

Aragorn took hold of Boromir’s uninjured hand and held it between his own. “Boromir,” he began seriously, suddenly very nervous. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. What if Boromir ended up hating him? Or disgusted by him? No. He had to do this or he would always long, always suffer, tormented by what could have been. Better to know for certain than dream forever. “I love you,” he said softly, warmly, his eyes intense on Boromir to watch his reaction. He felt like a huge burden had been lifted from his heart at finally saying these words that had been in his heart for so long.

Boromir smiled reassuringly, giving Aragorn’s hand a comforting squeeze. “Was that all you wished to say? I had feared you had hidden an injury from me and were deathly ill,” he said in relief, reproof in his eyes as he looked at Aragorn for having scared him so.

Aragorn frowned and looked in surprise at him, convinced Boromir did not understand the importance of what he had just said. “I am not sure you understand. I love you as more than a brother…. I wish to share everything with you.” He paused, not sure how direct to be, but he did not wish to be happy over a misunderstanding which would later break his heart. His gaze found a spot on the floor next to Boromir’s bed as he lowered his head and muttered, unable to speak while meeting Boromir’s gaze, afraid of what he would see there, “I wish to feel your body next to mine, hear your heartbeat as I fall asleep, kiss your lips goodnight…. I wish your face to be the last thing I see when I go to bed and the first thing I see when I rise in the morning. I wish to share the rest of my days with you… for you, by you….” His voice died out, afraid he had said too much.

“Aragorn,” Boromir said softly and withdrew his hand to put it under Aragorn’s chin and gently lifted Aragorn’s head so he could look at him if he levelled his eyes, yet he was blushing, his gaze focused on the floor, still fearing what he might see in Boromir’s eyes. “Look at me, please,” he asked softly and Aragorn had no choice but to do so, knowing he could deny Boromir nothing when he asked him in a tone so filled with affection as the one he was using now.

Aragorn was taken aback by the love and warmth in Boromir’s eyes as he looked at him. Hope rose in him despite his attempts to keep it down; afraid he was setting himself up for a fall.

“I wish that as well. Until you put it into words, I was not sure what I wished, only that I wished never to part from you. That I wished to be closer to you, to feel you better than I ever have before. Over the years, it is with you I have found peace and hope. Besides my brother, only you have ever been able to understand me without words being spoken. With you, I am never more or less than what I am. The closest I have ever come to happiness in the years past were with you,” he said warmly, his voice filled with affection and tenderness. He had to smile at the astonished look at Aragorn’s face and smugness sneaked into the smile; it was not often he had been able to take Aragorn so completely by surprise. “Though do not believe this means I will start reading that Elven poetry Faramir and you enjoy…. This you may keep for yourself,” Boromir added with amusement in his voice, feeling himself flying high on a wave of happiness unlike anything he had ever felt before. Mischief was glimmering in his eyes as the surprised look on Aragorn’s face slowly gave way to a smile of pure joy. Boldly, fearlessly as always, Boromir managed to rise a bit from his pillow, as he, with his uninjured hand, took a strong grip on Aragorn’s neck and pulled the older man towards him.

Aragorn easily accepted being pulled into the kiss, unable to believe this was really happening. All his hopes and dreams were coming true. The kiss was light and warm, claiming and desperate, feeling out each other, their mouths dancing and playing.

Aragorn was more subdued, a little hesitant, still afraid of scaring Boromir away with the full force of his desire. In typical fashion, when Boromir had made up his mind and had set his sights on something, he was neither subdued nor hesitant; his kiss was demanding and strong, certain and true. Reluctantly, Aragorn drew back, and Boromir let him go, feeling exhausted at the effort the kiss had been for his still healing body, but it had all been worth it. There was a satisfied smile playing in his eyes and on his lips as his head sank back to the pillow. As he lay there, his eyes shining with love and mischief at Aragorn, he looked young in a way he had never been before.

“I feared you would have scorned me,” Aragorn admitted as he smiled in joy and wonder at Boromir. In this moment, nothing mattered but their love, nothing else was real. Aragorn held Boromir’s uninjured hand in both of his and their eyes met.

Boromir smiled happily but then grew more serious. “I would have,” he admitted truthfully. “Had I not seen the vision of what my life could have been, how I would have died…. Had I not felt what I would have felt then....” He paused and then said softly, his gaze lowering to the sheets, still not completely comfortable with voicing his emotions so honestly, “In that future… I loved you even then. Though in my vision I had met you only recently, I knew I loved you.” He raised his eyes to look at Aragon and there was both joy and remembered despair in his eyes. “In my dying moment, you sat with me and I regretted so much…. Most of all that I had never told you I loved you.” His expression grew strong and certain as he went on, “I vowed to myself then that should we both survive the War, I would not let fears hold me back; I had been given a second chance at life and this time I would say what I had concealed before. I will not live another life of regrets.”

“Then I owe your gift of visions a great deal,” Aragorn said warmly, still smiling happily. He briefly wondered if the gift of Boromir’s love for him would ever cease to amaze him…. If his smile for this gift would ever fade. Right now the world seemed perfect and he could imagine nothing that would shatter his happiness.

“Visions, this War, and my almost dying,” Boromir said with humour in his voice. Then he grew serious once more. “It all made me realise how fragile we are… how easily we break, fall, disappoint, bleed and die. My father expected perfection from me…. Yet I realize now I am but human and humans make mistakes. I will do my best and that will have to be enough. Through the years, up till the day I sent Faramir with you, the only times I ever did what I felt was right, instead of listening to what others wished of me, expected of me, was when I defended Faramir or you.” He took a deep breath before he went on, his voice filled with self-realisation and certainty; in his suffering, he had finally found the answers and the peace that had previously escaped him, “Blindly following orders is not courage. Not doing what feels right, not helping those who suffer… not loving while there is time… that is cowardice; not strength.” Boromir smiled warmly at Aragorn and briefly stroked his cheek with his injured hand, barely feeling the pain as he lifted it to touch the older man’s skin. Aragorn leaned into the touch before the pain forced Boromir to lower his arm back to the covers. “I would rather fight to keep our love for five years than live a hundred, never having felt the love I feel growing between you and I,” Boromir said honestly, sincerely, the strain of moving his injured arm noticeable in his voice and the lines of his face.

Tears glimmered in Aragorn’s eyes and he let them fall, tears of joy and relief. Was it really true? Could he have it all? His destiny fulfilled, his duties completed and his lover by his side? He smiled happily at the thought. They could do this; they were doing this. “I love you very much,” he whispered, drawing close to Boromir, their foreheads touching.

“And I, you,” Boromir whispered, heartfelt. For a moment, he closed his eyes and just enjoyed the moment, enjoyed being alive and being loved. Finally he knew what he had always longed for, what he had always missed. He knew why he had always been so restless, unable to find peace. Here, in this moment, here with Aragorn…. Here, his soul found rest, found solace. Beginning pain from his injuries and exhaustion forced him to open his eyes and draw back. “Come… lie beside me, as I feel sleep claiming me,” Boromir said softly, and with his uninjured hand, he patted the covers.

“I will lie by your side now and forever,” Aragorn vowed huskily and Boromir accepted the vow with a warm look and a nod of his head. Aragorn pulled back and took off his boots, thinking some rest would do him good after the last few days’ battles and worrying. He arranged it so he could lie next to Boromir without injuring him. He lay on his side, pulling the blanket over himself. He lay, watching Boromir’s face, and Boromir was watching Aragorn in turn. They were lying so close, their noses were almost touching. Contentment and love was shining in their eyes as they both gazed at each other as if for the first time. In a way it was, for now they saw each other in a different light. Now they were free to admit to the beauty they found in each other, physically and emotionally.

“I have always wished to ask you… what did you write in the letter you gave me all those years ago, the letter I never opened?” Boromir asked into the comfortable stillness, feeling himself drift towards sleep, his voice slightly muffled.

“I wrote, ‘My heart will be yours; always’,” Aragorn said softly, knowing the message he had written by heart. His eyes were soft as they looked at Boromir, filled with tenderness. On impulse, he took hold of Boromir’s uninjured hand and held it affectionately in the space between them. Boromir gave his hand a gentle squeeze to let him know the touch was welcomed and appreciated.

“That was your message?” Boromir asked, surprised and pleased, his eyes widening, for a moment shaking the exhaustion off him. “Just this?”

“Yes.” Aragorn nodded with a fond smile of remembrance of his blooming feelings.

“I am saddened now I never opened it. It would have pleased me to hear such a message,” Boromir said unhappily, regretfully.

“Maybe it was best you did not. I was not ready to identify my emotions at that time…. Mayhap you were not either,” Aragorn said softly and Boromir nodded, considering this and knowing it was true.

“My thanks regardless,” he said softly and his green eyes shone with happiness at how things had turned out.

“I have never seen your eyes shine with such joy as they do at this very moment,” Aragorn said warmly, in awe.

“It is for you,” Boromir simply replied and Aragorn was speechless.

“Thank you,” he said, moved, and softly kissed Boromir’s lips. He drew back and their eyes signalled their affection, contentment, and loyalty to each other. They fell asleep watching each other, their hands staying connected, never falling apart.


	29. Coronation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn is crowned King

## Coronation

After a week’s rest, Boromir had been set to take on his duties as Steward till the time Aragorn was ready to be crowned King. During this time they would often spend their evenings together in the library, debating when and how to break the news of their love to the world. Admitting their feelings to each other was only the first step; they needed to agree on how to go from there. It hadn’t been an easy decision. Boromir was as courageous and bold in this matter as he had always been when his heart and mind was set on something. He had only feared Faramir’s reaction, and he had gladly accepted the union, happy to see his brother finally at ease with himself and finding contentment and happiness. After that Boromir had only pride to offer for his love, but Aragorn knew they needed to be cautious. With the reinstatement of the King, a lot would change; his love for Boromir would ask his people to accept even further changes. While in Elven kingdoms, warrior bondings were not uncommon, even a handful of kings had, through the eons, had such a union, but it was unheard of in Gondor. For Aragorn, the changes about to take place were manageable; he had known of warrior bondings for a long time, his soul was heavily influenced by Elven way of life and beliefs, and he had long known one day he would be King. His hesitation had been due to his concern for Boromir whose whole life would change overnight. Boromir had never been to Rivendell or any other Elven realm; he had never seen their way of life. He had grown up in Minas Tirith and understood well why Aragorn hesitated. They were making history – for better or worse their love would challenge years of tradition and beliefs. Still, Boromir was firm; he was not hiding his love; he would be no one’s secret. He would bow to one man and one man only; his King. Everyone else would simply have to accept how things were; somehow they would make it work. He had never been afraid of uncertainty or obstacles before and he wouldn’t start now. Boromir’s certainty had warmed Aragorn’s heart and had made the decision obvious. He knew his love for Boromir to be true and he wished the world to know this as well; most of all, he wanted Boromir to take his rightful place at his side. As his consort, Boromir would be above all in the Kingdom except Aragorn himself. If Boromir was ready to take up the fight then so was Aragorn. None could say Aragorn was not a man of valour and courage, and he had vowed that somehow he would find a way to make the changes in Boromir’s life as easy on him as possible. All their friends and family had been told and all had happily accepted the union; Elrond had been particularly pleased to see his son’s dream fulfilled. However, by the time Aragorn’s coronation took place, they had still not decided how and when to declare their love before the court, and Gondor itself.

Two months had passed before the day had arrived, a perfect day, a beautiful day for an event as important as the return of Gondor’s King. In those two months everyone had worked hard; the dead had been buried, the sick brought to the Healing Houses and the rebuilding of the formerly besieged city had started. As Steward, Boromir had led the rebuilding; his first and last act as Steward. Aragorn had been happy to leave those duties in Boromir’s capable hands so he would have time to prepare for taking office. They had complimented each other in their efforts as well now as they had as young boys. Today at Aragorn’s coronation, the city of Minas Tirith seemed as if changed. Gone was the battle-tired city, the pain and the blood. In its stead stood a glorious city of light and beauty, sparkling in the evening sun. Light seemed to have retuned, hope had returned… love had returned. The city was regaining its former glory and then some.

The ceremony for Aragorn’s coronation had been simple but heartfelt. Well, as simple as an affair as a grand and large one as this could ever be, with dignitaries from lands far and wide. It was the end of an era and the beginning of a new one. It had been the day Boromir officially handed office over to Aragorn. He had smiled warmly at his King and his love, now one and the same, as he had bowed before him. Everyone was dressed in their finest robes but none shone more than Aragorn and Boromir. Boromir was dressed in all white robes lined with gold, a white cape with fur over his shoulders, held in place by two large silver pins. He wore a light and elegant hair dress of Elvish design, a gift from Elrond when he had heard the news from Aragorn about his and Boromir’s alliance. Aragorn himself had been dressed in dark royal robes, a beautiful cape over his shoulders, and a crown of silver - placed by Gandalf - now glittering on his head.

After the official part of the coronation was completed, Aragorn had thanked everyone for their efforts in the War. He had first made special mention of the brave Hobbits and had paid them the respect he felt they were due. He had knelt before them and Faramir had quickly copied him, and after that Boromir, Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf, Eowyn, Eomer and then the whole court followed. The attention and honour had made the Hobbits stand there in embarrassment and wonder. The Hobbits had been relieved when Aragorn had moved on to thank Faramir, Boromir, Elrond, Haldir, Galadriel, Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli, Eowyn, Eomer and the other state leaders as well as the commanders. Finally he had sent his thanks to the officers, and last but not least, all the brave soldiers, also those lost, who had fought for him or with him. After this all the Kings, Queens, Lords and Ladies as well as all the highest ranking military leaders had been invited to a large feast in the citadel. A lavish meal had been served during which Boromir had been seated to Aragorn’s right, something that had drawn many puzzled looks from the Gondorian nobles as it was normally reserved for the Queen to sit at the King’s right hand side. Thereafter the festivities had moved to the citadel’s large ballroom. Boromir and Aragorn had mingled for a little while; Boromir had never been one for courtly politics and had mostly spoken with his military leaders and old and new friends like Legolas, Gandalf, and of course his brother and Eowyn. Aragorn had spoken with the Gondorian nobles and statesmen, getting to know the people who would be close to him at his court. After this Aragorn had taken his seat on a golden throne, which had been made for him with his royal emblem and placed on a small heightened podium at one end of the room. Beside Aragorn’s chair stood another chair, smaller and less glorious than Aragorn’s while still shining with power and prestige, the seat normally reserved for the Queen. Like Aragorn’s, it too had been specially carved and designed for this day. Unlike previous chairs made for Queens, this one had fewer decorations and was made from darker materials, giving it a strong look which was far from being feminine. Also, it had no crown carved into the back but had Aragorn’s royal emblem together with the symbol for Boromir’s House woven together. Aragorn had had the chair designed with Boromir in mind but so far the chair remained empty. Boromir remained standing beside Aragorn’s chair, overlooking the dancing, talking, drinking and laughing guests before them. On occasion Boromir’s fingers would squeeze Aragorn’s shoulder reassuringly as he eyed the festivities, his gaze on the guests, and except for this small gesture, he did nothing to indicate their relationship was any more intimate than any earlier King and his second. Throughout the evening Aragorn had felt Boromir’s love for him shine in his eyes but that had been all; he had been near him, yet had remained at a distance the way even the most trusted Second should. As the evening progressed it was beginning to bother Aragorn; this was not how he wanted to spend all banquets and social functions from now on. He was beginning to feel his crown weighing him down, limiting him. He had been born free and he decided then and there that he would not let his destiny take that freedom from him. He had been given a rare chance, to love and be loved, and he was not going to lose another minute. The whispers and stares from some of the priests and nobles over the seating arrangements, and how Boromir remained faithfully at his side as soon as he had gone to his throne, had not escaped his attention. Boromir had met their gazes head on, his eyes unyielding, his posture strong. Aragorn knew he owed Boromir nothing less than the same courage; though his fear was for Boromir and not himself, he also knew Boromir would not take kindly to being protected and wrapped in cotton. He knew well that Boromir was able to fight his own battles.

Aragorn looked up at Boromir then and noticed that despite his strong stance as he looked out over the guests, there was a hint of loneliness and vulnerability in his posture. It tore at his heart to see that and even more to know he hadn’t done anything to rectify it. Yet. “This is ridiculous,” Aragorn mumbled and shook his head. With a determined look on his face, he rose from his throne. The movement made the room focus on him and the dancing stopped, but Aragorn ignored them and turned to look at Boromir, his gaze softening at once.

“Something amiss?” Boromir asked, a hand resting on his sword, ready to defend his King if need be. He took a step closer to Aragorn who was now more or less blocking his view of the guests.

“Yes. I have not kissed you for several hours,” Aragorn said softly with a warm smile, his eyes filled with tenderness. The miracle of Boromir’s love was still there and the mere thought still brought a smile to Aragorn’s lips. Boromir’s face softened, for a moment forgetting where they were. Without another word, Aragorn captured Boromir’s face in his hands and drew him into a kiss. Boromir willingly drew closer, the love still so new it was like an all consuming flame drowning out anything else. However, they had yet to consummate their relationship as Boromir had still been healing, they had both been very busy but mostly due to the fact it was still very new for them to connect on a physical level, so they had silently agreed to go slow. Instead they had spent the last two months getting close in a way they never had before. Words, touches and gestures now seemed natural to them. The chaste kiss deepened as Boromir threw caution to the wind and laid his arms around his King and lover, melting their bodies close together. None of them heard the shocked and surprised gasps from most of the humans in the room. The Elves who had not known about their relationship took the emotional display with the fond forbearance of an ancient race, which had long since realised that life’s only true value lay in love.

“I think we have an audience,” Boromir whispered huskily, not really caring as the kiss ended and they drew apart.

Aragorn smiled warmly at him, once more amazed by the strength of his love. Aragorn silently asked him if he was all right to face the room and Boromir nodded, smiling encouragingly. In awe, Aragorn briefly touched Boromir’s shoulder, simply needing to touch some part of him. Then he turned to face the room, holding on to Boromir’s right hand. Boromir took a strong step forward so he was facing the crowd beside Aragorn. Boromir met the looks of shock, disgust, resentment, and even hate on many a human face with a strong and arrogant stare that said clearer than words that he really did not care what the court thought of him. Aragorn had known most humans would react negatively, this was a huge change for them, but he had still hoped that somehow, magically, everyone would take more kindly to their relationship. Hopefully this would happen once they got over the initial shock of something, which to them, was alien, strange and unnatural. Aragorn had a plan of opening up Gondor’s borders and providing more Elven influence which – he hoped – would help promote support for their union. Yet for now he felt it best to make it absolutely clear where his heart lay so no one could get the misguided impression that his union with Boromir could be overturned or would be temporary. “I have decided to take upon me a warrior bond,” he declared strongly and raised Boromir’s and his connected hands into the air. He could see from the look on the humans’ faces that most did not know the term but the kiss and their linked hands made it clear what he meant. “Boromir remains as Captain-General, the commander in chief, of my armies and Steward to the King. He will be my second in everything and none in the kingdom will stand above him. Only my throne shall set him apart from me. He will kneel to no one but his King. He will be my consort and I expect him to be treated and respected as such. Any insult to his person will be an insult to me.” The latter was followed by a warning look and a threatening undercurrent. He was as opposed to courtly intrigues as Boromir was and had just as little patience for it.

“What about heirs, my King?” one Gondorian nobleman felt bold enough to ask.

“I shall have heirs. The details of this is naught of your concern,” Aragorn declared with a dismissive hand gesture with his free hand, bringing Boromir’s and his intertwined hands down again. The room suddenly exploded in questions and whispers, which both Aragorn and Boromir ignored.

Boromir turned to Aragorn, smiling but with a cynical look in his eyes. “I am not as optimistic as you about this. I am not sure they are ready for this,” he said but his grip on Aragorn’s hand remained strong and almost possessive. He felt more at ease now that he knew, and the whole Kingdom knew, what place he had in society and in relation to the King himself.

“Then it is about time they become ready. I have no patience for this,” Aragorn declared harshly as he too turned from watching the crowd to facing his partner. He would have more than enough on his hands with rebuilding a country torn apart by war; he had little tolerance for courtly games and schemes. His features then softened and he brought Boromir’s hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly, aware that the gesture would further signal to the shocked guests where his love lay. Boromir gave him a smile and a look which was somewhere between embarrassment at the openly affectionate gesture, awe and humour. “Let us not waste more time on them tonight, my love. Come and sit by me,” Aragorn asked when Boromir withdrew his hand.

“As you wish, my King,” Boromir replied with warmth and humour sparkling in his eyes. Aragorn returned to his throne while Boromir seated himself in the chair next to him. This made the room break out in even more talk and turmoil. Boromir caught his brother’s eyes and Faramir smiled fondly, proudly, at him. He gave him a small respectful nod of his head, which Boromir returned in kind.

Boromir turned his attention back to Aragorn. “Whatever happens… thank you for what you did for me, for us, here tonight,” he said softly.

Aragorn smiled warmly. “Lye inye melme,” he said tenderly as he leaned over the small space between their chairs and claimed Boromir’s lips in a loving kiss. When he drew back, Boromir was smiling; this was one Elvish sentence he had already learnt the meaning of.

“And I love you,” he replied warmly, at peace despite the uproar amongst most of the human guests. They sat side by side and gazed out over the crowd. Whatever happened, they would face it together and that thought made them both smile.


	30. A New Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Boromir start their new life together

## A New Beginning

Four months had passed since Aragorn’s coronation and everyone had been busy in that time. Boromir had been occupied with rebuilding Gondor’s military strength and organizing the defence of Gondor’s outer borders, as there were still renegade bands of Orcs around. Aragorn had been busy setting up his new government and planning his strategy for the future of Gondor. Appointing Gondorian noblemen to sit in the Council, which should lead and advise the new King in all matters, had proved more difficult than Aragorn had first thought. Everyone wanted the prestige of sitting on the Council , but Aragorn wanted only men he felt were not only capable but who wanted to move Gondor in the same direction as he did… even if this meant changing customs and traditions, or even that the noblemen had to give up some of their power. He knew he could not completely avoid courtly intrigues, but he wanted to do his best to avoid them in his Council. Faramir and Boromir, of course, sat on the Council, and Aragorn had been very tempted to delegate the assignment of appointing the rest of the Council members to Faramir. However, he’d had other duties, and in the end, Aragorn had had to pick men he thought would make good statesmen based on first hand impressions only, as he did not know the Gondorian nobility very well yet. Aragorn comforted himself with the fact that, as King, he always had the option to have anyone removed from office if they did not fulfil their duties.

Despite the hectic months Aragorn had had time to make instructions that the King’s bedchambers should be redesigned to suit both Boromir’s and his own taste. The Queen’s bedchambers, situated beside the King’s with a private entrance between them, had been completely redesigned to Boromir’s wishes. However, as soon as they had consummated their relationship, Boromir was rarely there, but spent all his nights with his King in the King’s chambers. One of the things that had helped them consummate their love had been Aragorn’s knowledge of how such warrior bondings were actually consummated in practice as Boromir knew nothing of such things. Boromir had made a mental note to thank Legolas and other younger Elves, who had told Aragorn about such private matters which Elves rarely spoke of, when he saw them next. The first time between them had been awkward but both men had taken it with loving humour. After that, it had become easier, until their lovemaking was graceful, fluid, and without any hint of embarrassment from either of them. Now, both men were comfortable with their sexual desires, and with the love they shared. They had both seen too much death and destruction not to appreciate what they had.

In the four months since Aragorn’s coronation, Faramir had been given the new titles Aragorn had spoken of, Prince and Lord, and Boromir had declared he was now second in command of Gondor’s armies and he also remained leader of the Gondorian Rangers. However, in the past months, Faramir had left warfare and Gondor’s defence to his brother and had spent a lot of his time taking care of every day governance issues. It was matters such as support for those the war had left homeless and organizing long time relief for the large number of children the war had orphaned.

As they were not yet wed, Eowyn had returned to Rohan and had taken over many of the same governance duties as Faramir had in Gondor for her own nation. The separation had been hard for them, but Faramir had managed to visit her three times in Rohan, which had lessened the longing in their hearts. The first visit had been to receive an honourable title from Eomer as thanks for all Faramir had done to keep Rohan safe during the War. The other visits had diplomatic and military importance, as he had communicated Boromir’s strategies for protecting their borders from the remaining forces of the Dark Lord, as well as Aragorn’s plans for a permanent alliance with Rohan, the latter helped well on its way by Faramir and Eowyn’s upcoming marriage.

Today, a large feast for family, friends and statesmen from far and wide had been prepared in Minas Tirith to celebrate the official announcement of the upcoming wedding between Faramir and Eowyn. Elrond, Gandalf, Legolas, Arwen, Haldir, the Hobbits, and everyone else who stood Gondor - or the new Royal House under Aragorn - close had come. The Elves, Gandalf and the Hobbits had arrived a few days earlier and had had a joyful reunion with Aragorn, Faramir and Boromir. When Eomer had arrived at Minas Tirith with Eowyn and his entourage, they had received a warm welcome with flowers being thrown before their horses and a royal escort from the city gates to the citadel. Faramir had been awaiting his beloved outside the citadel with Boromir and Aragon, all of them in their finest robes. Boromir had found his little brother’s eagerness and nervousness as they waited both amusing and endearing. When Eowyn had finally reached them, both Faramir and Eowyn had barely managed to keep themselves from running into each other’s arms, only the formality of the event had held them back. However, their happiness and love had shone through in the way they looked at each other when she curtsied before him and he bowed to her in return. After the formal welcome, everyone had moved to the banquet hall where the Gondorian nobility awaited, also dressed in their finest for an event as important as this. First Aragorn, Eomer and then Boromir had spoken of the upcoming marriage and their support for it before finally Faramir had announced his engagement to Eowyn and their intention to marry the coming summer. After this, a lavish meal had been served, Aragorn at the head of the table, Boromir to his right, and to signal the new alliance, Eomer sat at Aragorn’s left Eowyn had been seated beside her brother and Faramir had sat on her other side. After the meal they had all moved to the large throne room, and now everyone had started to mingle while servants made sure no one had an empty goblet. It was a day of joy and everyone was in high spirits.

“Congratulations again, little brother,” Boromir said warmly as he reached his brother and Eowyn. Boromir was the first to offer personal congratulations to the couple, as the meal had allowed only toasts and other, more impersonal, well-wishing. Aragorn had left Boromir’s side to talk to Gandalf, as well as some of the Elves whom he had not seen since his coronation, most noticeably, Lord Elrond, while Boromir had hurried to share in his brother’s joy. Faramir’s joy was almost a living thing, and it made Boromir smile for him. He was holding Eowyn’s hand and leading her around the room with a proud smile and a fond look in his eyes. Though they were moving through the room to greet the guests, it was clear they only had eyes for each other. They both looked wonderful in warm and elegant robes befitting their royal station. She wore a delicate crown while he had decided not to wear any, though his station as Prince entitled him to. Boromir himself was dressed in elegant and dark robes made from the finest material, their style a mixture of Gondorian strength and Elven elegance. Though his status as the King’s consort left him the option of a crown or headpiece, he normally wore neither and didn’t wear any today. .

“I am very happy for you both,” Boromir went on as he embraced his brother and thereafter kissed Eowyn’s cheek with brotherly affection.

“Thank you,” Faramir said with a happy smile. Today everything had been put in motion for his dreams to come true. Today life was good. He had only one concern and that was for his brother. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that Boromir was happy; in fact he had never seen him this happy before. Yet the mostly negative response his bond with Aragorn had received from Gondor’s nobility left him worried. He prayed it would not take the joy from his brother’s eyes or disturb the newfound peace Boromir had found in his heart and soul.

“How do you fare, Brother?” Eowyn asked with a hint of worry, using the familiar title Boromir would be given after her wedding to Faramir. She knew how important Boromir was to Faramir, and therefore he was important to her too. The last time she had seen Boromir had been at Aragorn’s coronation, and like Faramir, she was worried that the nobility had yet to fully accept Boromir’s place in their King’s life. Though she had never heard of warrior bonds before, she had easily accepted the concept due to her love for Faramir and her respect for Aragorn and Boromir. She was from a land still untamed in many ways and therefore untouched by some of the complications civilisation brought with it. If something worked, it worked, and that was all there was to it. She had seen courtly schemes and intrigues tear her own Kingdom apart during the War, and she was worried the same fate could befall Gondor, the land she would adopt as her own the day she wedded Faramir.

Boromir smiled warmly at the familiar term, happy that Eowyn had so quickly accepted him into her heart. “I am well but busy. I have spent most of my time away from Minas Tirith rebuilding our defences, in particular at Osgiliath, and at our borders near Mordor.”

“There is still danger from Mordor?” she asked with concern.

“Some,” Boromir admitted grimly, “yet they are renegade bands. If we stay vigilant, we shall not suffer any severe losses.”

The sober mood was broken when Legolas and Arwen came up to them, holding hands. They both looked eternally beautiful in long and light flowing robes, wearing light and delicately crafted silver headpieces. “Your Highness,” they said, and he bowed and she curtsied before Boromir. Boromir still felt a little uncomfortable being addressed as royalty, but as the King’s consort, he was starting to get used to it. He bowed his head in acknowledgment of their greeting, a smile on his lips. Legolas and Arwen had been among the Elves who had arrived early, and Boromir had enjoyed getting to know them better in the days leading up to Faramir’s engagement.

Legolas and Arwen turned towards Faramir and Eowyn. “Prince Faramir, Princess Eowyn, congratulations to you both,” Legolas wished them formally but warmly. Arwen smiled and nodded to indicate the warm wishes were from her as well.

“Thank you, my friends… from both of us,” Faramir said with a warm smile.

Legolas returned the smile before he turned to Boromir. “How have things been here in Gondor? Have the nobles been supportive?” Legolas asked, in a polite way voicing his concern after the clear hostility he had seen and felt from most of the humans when Aragorn had announced his love at his coronation. Legolas had difficulty understanding Aragorn’s choice of life-mate; he found Boromir to be an interesting man, a faithful friend, and an honourable yet proud warrior, but he was so different from the Elves – the Elves with whom Aragorn shared so many characteristics. Yet maybe it was this difference between them that made their love possible, for there was no mistaking the joy both men took in their union. His bond brother had made it clear Boromir was the one he wanted and thus Legolas would defend them and their love till death.

Boromir gave a nonchalant hand gesture. “Growing up, they believed I would become their new Steward and they would be eager to please me. I have sadly not spent much time in Minas Tirith with my King since he told of our union.” The parting had been hard on them both, but they were pragmatic men who had great love for their people and country as well as a clear sense of duty and honour. Besides, Boromir had found the private welcome home party his King gave him the night after he was back more than made up for the days apart. The thought alone could bring a smile to his lips. “However, while I have been here, they have mostly avoided me so I know naught of their level of support at this time,” Boromir continued. He was in no hurry to find out, as he was certain he knew how most would react; resentment and exclusion was at the top of his list. Already he had felt cold politeness and distance from the few nobles he had run into during the festivities. Being popular had never been important to him, so for himself he would have no sleepless nights over this. As it was, he had little respect for these nobles who had never seen battle yet still felt they had a right to dictate the outcome of war. However, his concern lay with his King and lover. He refused to be cowered and he refused to allow his King to be disrespected in any way because of their bond.

“Prince Legolas, Princess Arwen, a pleasure to meet you,” an elder Gondorian nobleman said as he stopped before them with his wife. His eyes found Faramir’s and then Eowyn’s. “Prince Faramir, Princess Eowyn, congratulations on your upcoming marriage,” he continued.

Boromir shared a look with Legolas that said, ‘Here is your answer’. His hand on his sword handle tightened, his eyes growing dark. He recalled that this nobleman had never seen battle and had spent most of the War profiting from the suffering of others. His disrespect now moved him even further down Boromir’s list of least favourite people. Faramir’s normally calm temper was starting to flare while Arwen and Legolas were looking at the couple with clear reproof and disapproval in their eyes. Eowyn was not one to control her temper and was set to give an angry reply but the nobleman’s wife overruled her.

“I am certain you will be very happy,” the wife said with a smile, and both she and her husband looked as if they hadn’t noticed how the temperature had dropped several degrees since they had joined the small group. “What a lovely dress. Where did you have it made?” she continued to Eowyn, trying to make polite conversation.

Eowyn wore a long pale green dress with wide sleeves, a band around her waist and a small crown on her head, her long hair hanging loose. She did indeed look particularly beautiful. Eowyn recalled with affection that Faramir, during the meal, had whispered in her ear that she looked radiant but that she would be forever beautiful to him as long as her love for him kept shining in her eyes. “At home, my Lady,” Eowyn replied shortly, referring to Edoras, having forgotten the nobles’ names. They had been introduced to so many people before the meal, she could barely tell one from the other. She made a hand gesture towards Boromir to silently alert the couple of their impolite oversight, but the husband blankly ignored her, his stare defiant and cold.

“Sir, I would appreciate it if you would….” Faramir began enraged, barely managing to keep his voice down, offended on Boromir’s behalf. Even if they didn’t acknowledge him as the King’s consort, they should at least acknowledge him as their military leader, and the man who had held Gondor together during the War until the King had returned. He had never seen anyone disrespect his brother, and seeing it now felt fundamentally wrong; like seeing a priceless possession desecrated.

Boromir stopped any more words from his brother with a hand on his arm and a warning, but thankful, look. He did not need anyone to fight his battles for him, not now and not ever. “Ahem,” Boromir said, a mixture between fury and dark amusement in his eyes as he called attention to himself and their oversight. As the King’s consort, he should have been the first person they had greeted. His right hand tightened on his sword till his knuckles went white, and only thoughts of how such an act would hurt Aragorn’s Kingship cooled his temper. Avoiding him was fine with him; he was not fond of court life anyway. However, disregarding him as if he was a child or a servant was not. They could hate him all they wanted in private, but in public he demanded the respect he was due as their military commander, as his father’s son… and as the King’s consort.

“Of course, Lord Boromir. I did not see you,” the nobleman said with a false smile, and bowed, in his greeting, deliberately only acknowledging Boromir’s military and noble descent and not his union with the King. His eyes clearly showed contempt and hatred.

 _Snake. Of course you saw me_ , Boromir thought darkly. He had been hated before but never like this; the nobleman didn’t know him and never had. Suddenly he missed being among his troops. They didn’t treat him any differently than before… except maybe more respectfully. The elves he had met since Aragorn’s announcement were the same way; the only difference in their behaviour was that they treated him more respectfully. The same could be said about allies and friends alike… including Gandalf and the Hobbits, whom he had quickly grown fond of, and had taken to calling ‘little ones’, like had he called his brother when he was young.

“Your Highness,” Faramir corrected the man through clenched teeth, the hand resting on his sword handle tightening, and only Eowyn’s warm and calming touch as she held his other hand, calmed him.

Boromir gave Faramir a look to say he would handle this. He was about to force himself to make a polite but strong reply, play the game yet still insist on the man acknowledging him truthfully, when he felt someone’s arm around his waist. As he turned, he found himself looking into the warm eyes of his lover and his mood instantly improved.

“I apologize I took so long. My foster father had some insightful advice for me in regard to how to deal with unwanted elements in my Kingdom,” Aragorn said and the fond and warm look he had given Boromir when he came to him was transformed into cold ice when his eyes rested on the nobleman, a meaningful look in their depths.

“My King,” the nobleman stuttered, a hint of nervousness entering his eyes as he and his wife bowed and curtsied before him, fully understanding the hidden threat.

Aragorn gave them both an angry and irritated look. “And?” he pressed with a raised eyebrow, with his head making an almost invisible gesture towards Boromir who had returned to shooting daggers with his gaze at them.

“And consort,” the nobleman added with enough sting to make the words this side of insulting. Boromir once more tightened his grip on his sword but he said nothing, letting his King decide how he would handle this and any future situations of this kind.

Aragorn made a dismissive hand gesture and grimaced as if he was looking at something nasty he had found under a rock. “Get out of my sight,” he said coldly.

“Very well, Your Highness. I shall see you tomorrow at Council,” the nobleman said, an offended look in his eyes at having been dismissed. He bowed once more, his wife doing another curtsy.

“I said, out of my sight and I meant it. I do not desire to see you at Council - ever - nor anywhere else in the near future,” Aragorn said darkly, a clear warning in his eyes. After all this time, he had finally been able to gather his Council and the first meeting was scheduled for the following afternoon. He saw he had also already found the first member who would be asked to leave the Council again.

“But Sire… it is my birthright to sit at the Council. I have the—” he protested furiously, his face going red with the heat of his anger and embarrassment.

“Silence!” Aragorn said sharply, and not only the nobleman, but all the chatter around them, fell silent in response to the King’s harsh command. “Be gone from my sight at once,” he ordered, his words deadly serious but composed.

“Sire,” the man said sharply, and once more he and his wife bowed and curtsied before they left the room, both trying hard to hold on to their dignity despite the very official humiliation. The whole room watched them leave before chatter resumed.

Boromir turned from watching the couple to Aragorn, a small smile playing around his lips. “You will not be very popular for doing this, my King,” Boromir said, though satisfaction and happiness was shining in his eyes. He could see from the satisfied looks on Faramir, Eowyn, Legolas, and Arwen’s faces that they had enjoyed seeing the nobleman and his wife be told their place. Aragorn’s actions had made it clear to anyone that the King would be unforgiving and unyielding in the matter of his heart… just like Boromir was.

Aragorn turned to face him and the anger and coldness melted instantly away from his face and eyes to be replaced by warm affection. “I vowed to you the day I announced our bond that you would kneel before no one but your King, and right, you shall not.” There was determination and a hint of regret in his words; he was saddened Boromir had had to endure this, but he had known it could happen and would likely happen again. Yet he would be there to make sure anyone who did so was punished quickly and swiftly. He could not command approval or tolerance but he could command obedience and courteousness.

“He is an influential man,” Boromir remarked though his eyes said that if his King had no need for this man then he certainly did not either. He desired no political influence at court and therefore had no use for men such as this one who spent their lives scheming to enhance their position and wealth.

Aragorn shrugged. “I have no need for a man who cannot follow his King’s commandments in all matters.”

Boromir smiled in approval at these words, all his annoyance at the man disappearing. His love for his King was still a wonder to him and it could easily make him forget everything else. Ignoring where he was, he leaned towards Aragorn and whispered in his ear, humour and love in his words, “I do not always follow your orders.”

Aragorn’s eyes reflected rare mischief but also great fondness. “As a consort, this is true. As my Second, you always do,” he whispered so low only Boromir and Legolas and Arwen, with their enhanced hearing, and standing so close to them, could hear. Both Elves politely pretended not to hear and had started up a conversation with Faramir and Eowyn.

Boromir smiled at him. “True,” he said. Neither of them noticed the fond look shared between Legolas, Arwen, Faramir and Eowyn who were all honoured and pleased to witness this tender moment between their friends.

Aragorn’s eyes grew dark with desire and he whispered in Boromir’s ear, tightening his one armed embrace around his lover, “Stay with me tonight.”

Boromir’s own eyes shore with returned desire as he whispered back, “Now and every other night till the day I die.” That said, he drew Aragorn into a passionate kiss and Aragorn wrapped his arms around him, ignoring the crowd. This time there was less direct outrage to the kiss, and their friends and allies continued their conversations in a deliberate attempt to force the Gondorian nobility into accepting the union and hence the physical affection between them as natural. At that moment, both Aragorn and Boromir knew it didn’t matter what trials they might have to face; as long as they were together there was no foe they could not defeat.


	31. A King’s Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A private moment between the King and his lover

## A King’s Love

Boromir awoke at once when he found his hand meeting empty air when he reached for his lover. “Aragorn?” he asked worriedly. He awoke at once and sat up in bed, scanning the dark bedroom. His hand automatically went to the sword he had standing against the wall next to the bed on his side, within easy reach.

*I am here, beloved,* Aragorn said softly in Rivendell Elvish without looking away from what he was doing. As Boromir’s eyes got used to the darkness, he saw Aragorn sitting by his desk, wearing a long royal blue robe of Elvish design with his royal emblem delicately weaved into it, penning a document. A single candle stood at the desk, silhouetting his face.

Boromir relaxed at once. He released the sword and got out of bed. The King’s bedchambers were decorated in masculine tones with the finest of furniture. It had two large windows, which allowed the morning sun entrance. The chambers had a design that was a mixture of Gondorian tradition and strength mixed with Elven elegance. Besides the large bed, with a nightstand to each side, the room held two desks and chairs, one large wardrobe and a table with two chairs. It had quickly proved necessary for them to each have a desk in the King’s chambers, and a table they could both sit at if they wanted to share ideas or meals in a very private and intimate fashion. These days, Boromir only used his own chambers for dressing, if he wanted to take a private bath or if Aragorn left the capital without him.

Boromir went to get his robe, which lay over the chair by his desk. It was a long and warm red one, also of Elvish design, and with his insignia embroidered with delicate golden thread on the place of his heart. He pulled it over his naked body, tying it around his waist and went to Aragorn, putting his arms around his neck from behind. Aragorn kept writing but laid his free hand over one of Boromir’s arms and gave it a gentle squeeze. When they were alone, they were not King or Steward, they were the friends they had been since childhood and the lovers they had become later in life.

*Why are you not in bed? It is long yet to sunrise,* Boromir asked, continuing the conversation in the Rivendell Elvish Aragorn had taught him. In a palace, the walls had ears and enemies and allies alike would be interested in any move they made. Therefore whenever they wanted to be certain their conversation remained private, Aragorn had suggested they spoke the language of his adopted people. In Gondor, no other human but them, and Faramir, who had wished to learn the language of the people he still today admired greatly, could understand it.

* I am writing a letter to Faramir and will then write one to my foster father to be sent to their palaces in Ithilien and Rivendell. I wish these letters to arrive before the news of the attempt on your life earlier this day reaches them, * Aragorn told him in a strangely detached voice, which still gave more away than any amount of words ever could. He continued to write as if the horrible reality of how close he had come to losing Boromir would fade away by each new letter the ink coloured on the parchment. Somehow keeping busy, just doing something, anything, kept his fears at bay and stopped him from reliving nightmarish ‘what ifs’ in his mind.

Aragorn’s words held a desperate edge, and for the first time ever, Boromir heard fear in his voice. *Aragorn,* Boromir began but got no reply; Aragorn kept writing as if his life depended on it. He gently put a hand over his lover’s and stopped the pen. Aragorn looked up then, finally, and his eyes held such dismay, it almost took Boromir’s breath away. He took the pen from Aragorn and laid it on the desk beside the half written letter. Resolute, he released his hold on Aragorn and moved to stand beside his chair. He dragged the older man to his feet with a hand around his wrist. Aragorn allowed the movement and pushed the chair back with his foot so they could stand face to face.

Boromir released his wrist and stroked his cheek tenderly. *Now, my love, speak. What troubles you?* Boromir asked, concerned.

Aragorn laid a hand over Boromir’s on his cheek and leaned into the touch. For a moment he closed his eyes and drank in the smell and feel of his lover. When he opened his eyes again, unshed tears glimmered in them. *You were almost killed today,* Aragorn said miserably and released his hold on his hand. *What would I have done if I had lost you?* It was not just that Boromir could have been killed; he had been in danger before. As the commander in chief of his armies, Boromir was always the first one in whenever anything was amiss. As King, Aragorn had himself often had to send his lover into battles from which there was a chance he might not return. To do so was one of the heaviest of his royal burdens, but he rarely needed to even voice such a command; Boromir was nothing if not a dutiful second and intelligent warrior, he needed no orders to defend the land he loved and would gladly give his life to see Her safe. No, this had been different. It had not been a battle but a deliberate attempt on his life. What was more was that the mastermind behind the dishonourable act was to be found here, within his own palace. Though the attack had been aided by elements from the shattered supporters of the Dark Lord, only someone with access to Boromir’s travel plans, who knew he would be away from the city, and without the King and the added support his mere presence would bring, could have organized the attack. Besides their family and friends, who were all above suspicion, the only ones who had such access was the King’s Council and anyone they would associate themselves with. This limited the list of suspects to a high ranking nobleman… or military man, but the latter seemed unlikely, given the great support and respect Boromir commanded from his troops.

*You did not lose me,* Boromir assured him, his voice warm and strong. He withdrew his hand from Aragorn’s cheek and instead pulled him closer by wrapping his arm around Aragorn’s waist. *I am still right here,* he added with a smile, wanting desperately to remove the pain he saw in Aragorn’s eyes.

*Not for any aid of mine,* Aragorn said softly, guilt in his words, and he avoided his eyes. What good was it for him to reign as King if he would have to reign alone? Gondor was blossoming now, a nation of power and beauty, but what comfort would he be able to take from his nation’s progress, if not he had Boromir at his side to help him create this progress? If not Boromir was there to warm his soul and ease his heart?

*You had meetings to attend to here in Minas Tirith. I was on my way back from supervising the new defences at Osgiliath. You cannot be with me all the time,* Boromir said reasonably, his voice comforting. He was a warrior, had been raised to be one since childhood, and had always had the darkest outlook on human nature of the two of them; the episode had therefore not shaken him as much as it clearly had Aragorn. Though he did not know what he would have done had Aragorn been in danger far from him. As it was, he was relieved the attack had been meant for him alone. His frantic journey back to Minas Tirith after he had been attacked, to make sure Aragorn was safe would surely be the talk of the town for weeks to come.

“If you had been alone… there were five men….” Aragorn muttered, abandoning the Elvish. For a moment he relived the horror of ‘what if’ he had been fighting since Boromir, only a few hours ago, had burst through the doors to his study, dirty and bruised from his battle, interrupting his conversation with his aides, to reassure himself his King was safe. When he had seen Aragorn was unharmed, he had sighed with relief, though he, as a precaution, had ordered the head of the royal lifeguard to watch the King closely for the coming weeks. Alarmed by Boromir’s appearance, Aragorn had quickly called for a healer and had ignored Boromir’s words that he was unharmed. Boromir had finally managed to reassure his anxious lover that he was a little bruised but nothing worse. They had withdrawn to the King’s chambers and had simply lain in bed together, holding each other, till Boromir had fallen asleep from exhaustion after the battle and his tiring ride. Aragorn had been unable to find rest and had finally risen to start the letter. He had not been out of bed for more than 10 minutes before his absence had awoken Boromir.

Aragorn shook off the dark thoughts and hugged Boromir, his arms closing around the other man’s waist. He was a little taller than Boromir and was therefore in perfect reach to kiss his forehead tenderly. Thereafter he pulled the younger man as close to him as he physically could. He closed his eyes and tried to find comfort in his lover’s scent and being.

“I was not. I had a patrol with me,” Boromir said softly, tightening his arms around his lover and King as he too abandoned the Elvish. He let himself be held almost painfully tight against Aragorn’s muscular frame, hoping to reassure him through his physical nearness. “The army stayed loyal to me even when some of the noblemen tried to make them turn. Do not fear. The men are loyal to us both; the soldiers respect courage… not wealth.”

Aragorn drew back so he could see Boromir’s eyes but kept his arms securely around him. He smiled but it was a sad kind of smile. “I am King yet I am not blind to what you have had to endure. It has been seven years. I had hoped they would have accepted our bond by now.” Though most of the nobility disliked the very idea of his relationship with Boromir, it was rare any of them dared do or say anything towards him to indicate they did not approve. He was King, and a very well liked and powerful King at that. He would never bear the full force of his subjects’ intolerance. He could protect Boromir against direct attacks as he had at Faramir’s engagement, someone who did not address him properly or in other ways did not follow protocol, yet that was all. He could do nothing against social exclusion.

Boromir shook his head, a strong look in his eyes and a hint of anger in his voice. “Do not pity me. I do not need it.”

“I did not mean—” Aragorn began but Boromir overruled him, silencing him with a quick kiss.

“I know,” he said with a warm smile. He grew more serious as he went on. “Most of the nobility **has** accepted our bond. They may not approve or understand but they have accepted it.” He paused before he added in a pragmatic tone, “You cannot change peoples’ hearts and minds. Traditions and customs change slowly. You cannot punish someone for looking at me with distaste in their eyes, for excluding me, for gossiping about me.” His voice was matter of fact. He had no pity for himself for he did not feel he was missing anything. The people who resented him now were the nobility he had always despised, spineless men who would send others to die in their stead. He had no need for their approval and never had.

  
“I wish I could,” Aragorn said softly, wishing he could make Boromir’s current life as easy as it had been when he had been the Steward’s son. Back then everyone had adored him; the nobility who now avoided him had been kissing his feet for a chance to gain influence and secure their social position. He knew Boromir hated sympathy, but still he could not help but feel that perhaps his love was hurting him.

Boromir smiled encouragingly, his voice holding a humorous and nonchalant tone. “The nobility always had too much time on their hands.”

*Especially when they have time to send assassins after you,* Aragorn said worriedly, his mood still grim, going back to Elvish. The shock of what could have happened was still too fresh for him to let Boromir lift his spirits quite so easily. He released his embrace and Boromir did likewise so they were in a better position to talk.

*It is not the first time my life has been in danger and it will not be the last; I’m a warrior, it is who I am. Nay, I am worried for you. I am relieved there have been no further attempts on your life,* Boromir said, relief clear in his voice as he too changed language. He remembered how there had been an attempt on Aragorn’s life by a renegade band of Sauron’s supporters who had been unable to admit defeat. The attempt had come only a few weeks after his coronation. It would have succeeded if not for the combined efforts of Boromir and his guards, as well as Legolas, who had been visiting since Aragorn’s coronation, and some of his Elven guards. Since then Aragorn had had several Elven bodyguards besides the royal Gondorian lifeguard, given to him by Legolas who had worried for his bond brother’s life after the attempt.

*The guards Legolas left with me are formidable. I doubt anyone would recon with them. Besides, you have done a thorough job of ridding our borders of any larger bands of supporters of the Dark Lord,* Aragorn assured him. He paused before he went on, frowning. *I wish you would let me give you some of them for protection or accept my foster father’s offer to have some Rivendell Elves here. Their superior hearing could also aid us in discovering any future plots.*

Boromir sighed. *We have debated this several times already. I cannot and I will not. My guards will be Gondorian. I owe this to the army, to my men. If I give this up, I could lose support from the troops… and lose face before the noblemen.*

*I **will** find out who hired those men who attacked you today,* Aragorn said strongly, accepting Boromir’s decision though he could not help but worry. *And when I do I will kill the man behind it for treason against the crown.*

The top candidate on Boromir’s list was the nobleman Aragorn had reprimanded at Faramir’s engagement. Since the episode, the man had carried out his own private vendetta against him. Though he knew he had few supporters among the nobility, he also knew most of them would never dare anything like this. However, he didn’t want to broach the subject of his suspicions until he was certain. Even a King needed some evidence to have a nobleman executed. *You have to find him first but you will get no objections from me. I will hold him down while you cut off his head,* Boromir teased darkly before he grew serious. *I have sent patrols out to look into this matter. When I went to bed this night, one of the assassins lived still. I have left him in the tender mercy of my personal guard. I am certain he will talk within a day or two,” Boromir ended with grim satisfaction. If the army as a whole was loyal to him, his personal guard was fiercely protective; they would not rest till they had found and eliminated the threat against their Lord.

*I cannot approve of torture,* Aragorn warned, uneasy with the implication. He was King, and as such, his powers were limitless, but he tried to be a fair King, even when circumstances encouraged otherwise.

*Of course not. Neither do I,* Boromir said easily. He was not a cruel man and did not approve of torture either. However, the would-be assassin had almost killed him in his sleep; Boromir would have no objections if his personal guard was a little rough in their interrogation of this cowardly traitor.

Aragorn frowned but accepted Boromir’s words. He sighed over the complexity of their situation as he embraced Boromir once more; holding him close to his chest and feeling the younger man close his arms around him. He knew he would bend every rule in the book to keep Boromir safe and with him. “Do you ever regret saying yes to becoming my consort?” Aragorn asked softly into Boromir’s hair, abandoning the Elvish once more.

Boromir shook his head and pulled a bit back from Aragorn till they were face to face so Aragorn could read the certainty in his eyes. “Never.”

  
“Not even after everything changed? When I four years ago made Myra my morganatic wife and Princess of Gondor? Not even when she bore me a son three years ago and a daughter only one year past?” Aragorn asked softly, mentioning the children who were his pride and joy and the Gondorian lady of beauty, kindness and grace, he, on Boromir’s suggestion, had chosen to be the mother of his children. She was from poor landed gentry and had happily agreed to become Aragorn’s morganatic wife, knowing well it would give her a life she earlier could only have dreamed of. She had met Aragorn through Boromir who had rescued her and her parents from an Orc attack a year before she had accepted the proposition. Admiring Boromir for his great courage and owing him her life, she had only been too happy to accept the honour of being the mother of the royal children. She did not care for court life and had not minded spending her days in the lovely palace out in the countryside that Aragorn had gifted her with. She now lived there quietly in great luxury, far from the intrigues at court and only met the King once or twice a year. In the four years she had been with the King, she had been in his bedchambers only six times. The two of them had a respectful and pragmatic relationship. Aragorn had needed a son but had desired a second child. Both children now lived in the citadel and had chambers to the left of the King’s; Boromir’s were to the right. The children knew who their mother was but saw her only rarely when she came to visit the King and Boromir. They had several nannies but spent much time with their father and Boromir, as well as Faramir and Eowyn, who had indeed married the summer after their engagement and who even today were much in love. As the children of one of the greatest Kings who had ever lived, their lives were comfortable and well guarded. They did not lack for anything. Myra was content knowing they were happy, and the children never felt they missed her in their lives as they had so many other people around them who loved them. After the birth of the children, Aragorn had no further need for Myra; she had fulfilled her obligation and could live the rest of her life as she pleased. Aragorn had promised her that in a few years, he would dissolve their marriage so she would be free to marry and have children of her own. Boromir knew she did not desire Aragorn’s love and that the King did not love her. It was exactly because of this, and her total lack of desire for influence and wealth, that had made him suggest Aragorn take her as his morganatic wife. The title gave her little influence at court, but it carried great wealth and insight into the daily lives of the King and Boromir himself. Myra’s respect and admiration for her rescuer had further ensured she would never be in the King’s and his life more than she absolutely had to. In the years he had known Myra, they had developed a respectful but warm relationship and he thought of her as a dear cousin. He would defend her at any turn and she would do anything for him.

“I love your children as my own, Aragorn, you know this. Myra is a wonderful lady and I look forward to seeing her again when she comes to town this winter,” he said with a reassuring smile. He noticed Aragorn still looked doubtful and added, “Yes, I would have liked children of my own but I consider your children mine as well. Besides, regardless of our relationship, it would have been too risky for me to father a child and hope it would be a girl, for we both know I cannot sire a son… not at this time when the Kings have first now returned to Minas Tirith.”

  
Aragorn knew he was right. As the last Steward’s oldest son, it could create problems they did not need. “You never once regretted any of this?” Aragorn asked hopefully, knowing how much Boromir’s life had changed, how much he had given up. He was sure he only knew a fraction of the sacrifices - of the changes - Boromir had given for the sake of their love. It was with a mixture of deep gratitude and humility he realized his love for Boromir had meant he could not recognize the proud and unyielding young boy he had first found Boromir to be in the lover who stood before him now.

“I have command of Gondor’s armies, among men who trust and admire me. I have a brother who loves me far more than I deserve, a sister in law who counts me as a brother, second in heart only to her blood brother. I have just now been given a beautiful nephew. I have the love and respect of the Elven race. I have two wonderful children who love me and who I love to spent time with.” He paused and smiled warmly, his eyes filled with love, his voice tender. “And I have the honour of serving the greatest King in all the land, of loving and being loved in return.”

“The attempt that has been on your life—” Aragorn protested, not yet ready to lay his feelings of guilt and blame to rest. He knew if they had never entered into a warriors’ bond, the attempt that day would likely never had taken place.  
  


“And yours,” Boromir broke in.

Aragorn shook his head. “It is not the same. Mordor was always our enemy.” He paused before he added, his voice filled with regret, “You lost your position as leader of a nation and the support of nobles who used to obey your every whim. I am King and will never bear the full force of their resentment.” He paused once more before he added softly, a hand going behind Boromir’s neck as he let their foreheads gently touch, “The greatest sacrifice was made by you and will always have to be made by you.”

Boromir smiled as he drew a little back, letting Aragorn read the truth in his eyes as he simply said, “It was never a sacrifice.” His voice was warm and sincere.

“Why?” Aragorn asked huskily, moved, feeling love wash over him, their lips drawing near.

“You make my heart glad… always have and always will,” Boromir said simply and Aragorn smiled fondly. Though Boromir expressed himself in simpler and fewer words than Faramir or he himself did, they always warmed Aragorn’s heart.

“Boromir,” Aragon whispered as their lips met, and Boromir put his arms around the older man’s neck so he could deepen the kiss. Aragorn’s dark mood was gone, his doubts had disappeared. Tomorrow would be time enough to find the traitor; now he wanted only this. To feel his lover against him, to feel their love wash over him, drown him and carry him away on waves of desire.

“Come… get back into bed. You can finish your documents in the morning,” Boromir said as the kiss ended and desire made his eyes seem darker. He took Aragorn’s hand and led him to the large bed, Aragorn willingly following.

“I have a meeting tomorrow morning about our state finances,” Aragorn muttered in teasing protest but only great willpower kept him from reaching eagerly for his lover.

Boromir pulled them to a stop beside the bed and let go of his hand. He pulled on the tie holding Aragorn’s long robe closed. He smiled predatorily as he pushed the robe off Aragorn’s shoulders and it landed in a heap on the floor. Seeing Aragorn naked still took Boromir’s breath away. He had a few scars but much less than Boromir, due to Boromir’s harsher upbringing and greater military involvement. He was tall and muscular, and as he stood before Boromir, his eyes reflected his desire, his body betrayed he was already half aroused but he kept his hands at his sides, allowing his lover to simply look at him. Boromir smiled to himself at his own great fortune; Aragorn was breathtakingly handsome.

“I’ll write the letters for you then,” Boromir said, hunger in his voice as they kissed again and their arms once more went around each other.

Aragorn undid Boromir’s robe. They separated long enough for Aragorn to push the robe off Boromir’s shoulders. “I thought you hated paperwork. Was that not why you requested your King’s permission to supervise those outer defences… to escape paperwork?” Aragorn teased, sounding breathless from his own desire. He had to fight back his rising arousal at the sight of Boromir’s naked body, but couldn’t stop his heart from beating faster or his breathing from speeding up. Boromir was strong and muscular of build with several battle scars. However, there were a particular set of scars which always awoke great love and remembered pain in Aragorn. With a gentleness that made Boromir blush, clearly moved by the action, Aragorn took his right hand and softly kissed the scarred tissue on the wrist; the physical reminder of the pain Boromir had gone through growing up. Though Aragorn had always accepted Boromir’s need and right to treat his body as he desired, he was grateful that his love and care had meant Boromir no longer pushed himself beyond his limits and thus no longer punished himself in this fashion. He had found peace within himself and with his life, and knowing his love had brought Boromir this was one of the greatest gifts Aragorn had ever been given.

Boromir shivered at the touch and moaned at the sensual feel of Aragorn’s lips on his wrist as he went from kissing the skin to licking and softly biting, working his way upward. Unable and unwilling to hold back, Aragorn abandoned his slow approach and instead reached for his lover again and pulled him close, his hands stroking patterns on his back, his lips kissing Boromir’s neck, ear, lips, shoulders… wherever he could reach. Boromir put his head back and moaned in pleasure. As Aragorn let their groins rub against each other, creating an erotic friction, they both moaned loudly in pleasure.

“Continue what you are doing and I will do my own **and** your paperwork for a week,” Boromir promised, his eyes half closed, his voice filled with lust and desire.

“Agreed,” Aragorn muttered against his lips, and with a quick look over his shoulder, he saw they stood just beside the bed, his back now to it. He took one step back, taking Boromir with him, their bodies as if plastered together, as he let himself fall back on the high and soft bed. Boromir gave a small surprised sound as he landed on top of Aragorn on the bed, but before he could do anything else, Aragorn had turned them around so he was on top. When they had first become lovers, Boromir had often been the dominating partner in their exploits, but as his confidence had grown and he had become surer about who he was and what he wanted, helped along by speaking with Legolas and other Elves, their lovemaking would proceed in whatever direction they wished it to, both now comfortable with each other and their love.

“Let me show you how much I love you,” Aragorn whispered as he began to kiss Boromir’s body, starting to taste his way from his ear and lips, down his chest. He paid extra attention to his nipples that got licked and sucked while Boromir moaned in encouragement, before he kissed and licked his way down his stomach to his groin. To Boromir’s disappointment, he avoided the part of him most aching for attention. Instead he began to kiss and lick his inner thighs and then worked his way back up again to his chest, nipples and back to kiss his lips, while doing so, positioning himself so their groins were touching once again and both moaned at the friction every time one of them moved.

“Aragorn,” Boromir moaned in warning at his lover’s continued teasing, his brow sweaty and his voice heavy with need.

Aragorn smiled as he said, his voice breathless and filled with desire, “So impatient.” Despite his teasing words, he was equally eager and moved back to Boromir’s groin. With equal amounts of affection and desire, his lips closed around Boromir’s erection, tasting him on his tongue. Boromir hissed in pleasure and then started to mutter incoherent words of encouragement as Aragorn continued to lick and suck, using his hands to add to the sweet torment.

“Aragorn,” Boromir warned again, breathless, his eyes and voice dark with desire as Aragorn continued to tease him but kept backing off just when he was close to coming.

*In a moment, my love,* Aragorn replied, his voice tender, filled with desire and love. After this day he needed this; needed to wash away the foul and crumbling feeling of fear that almost losing Boromir had given him by burning his sounds, taste and feel into his very soul. The memory was still fresh in his mind; how pain and ice had closed around his heart when Boromir had told him he had been attacked, and he had realized he could have lost him. He needed to reassure himself Boromir was here, alive, with him. He needed to be inside him. He reached for the oil they had on the nightstand for this very reason, meeting Boromir’s dark gaze filled with urgent desire in silent question. Boromir gave an almost invisible nod of his head to indicate he should go ahead, a loving smile playing at his lips.

With a smile of his own, Aragorn took the bottle and repositioned himself between his lover’s legs, meeting his eyes filled with intense heat with a look just as heated yet tempered with the wonder he still today experienced at the gift of Boromir’s trust and love for him. Aragorn wished to go gentle, slow, but it ended up passionate and desperate, Boromir’s moans and pleas urging him on as he used some of the oil to stretch his lover, even in his haste making sure he did not hurt him.

“Get on with it,” Boromir demanded breathlessly, his voice and eyes filled with passion, need, urgency and desire. Aragorn knew he could wait no longer. Neither of them could. He carefully withdrew his fingers, oiled himself, and as gently as possible, pushed inside his lover’s body. Aragorn moaned in pure pleasure as Boromir’s body opened for him and the warm and tight feeling of his lover’s body surrounded him.

Boromir pushed the brief discomfort at the invasion aside, eager to have even more of his lover inside him, needing to feel him as much as Aragorn did. Impatient at Aragorn’s slow and careful entry, Boromir pressed back against him, flickering slightly at the momentary pain as Aragorn sank into him all the way to the hilt.

Even in the depths of his desire, Aragorn had noticed the flicker of pain over Boromir’s face. “Are you unhurt?” Aragorn asked, forcing himself to simply stay still to allow his lover to get used to him.

Aragorn’s question had given Boromir time to adjust to the feel of his lover inside him and he gave him a smile filled with affection and desire. “Not if you don’t move,” he said with a teasing, superior air and started to move himself, moaning at the resulting pleasure it created.

Aragorn briefly closed his eyes at the waves of pleasure Boromir’s movements sent through him. *Anything you wish,* he mumbled affectionately, moved by the pure love he saw in Boromir’s eyes as he looked up at him. He started to move, faster and deeper, angling himself until he managed to hit just that spot deep inside his lover that sent waves of pure bliss through his body.

They did not last long, the moment was too intense, their passion and emotions too raw. Feeling he was close, Aragorn reached out to pump his lover’s erection with fast, almost desperate movements. The combined sensation was too much for Boromir who came with a yell of pure passion that would likely echo through the hallway outside the room but neither of them cared. Boromir’s orgasm triggered Aragorn’s, who came deep inside his lover with a passionate scream of his own. Feeling wonderfully drained, Aragorn let himself lay on his lover, their bodies staying connected. For a few seconds they lay like that, Boromir’s arms around his King and lover, a hand playing with his now damp hair, their heavy breathing the only sound. Then, reluctantly, Aragorn moved and withdrew from Boromir’s body. He got a cloth from the nightstand and used the water basin which stood next to it to wash them both. Boromir looked up at him as he worked with a satisfied, drained, but happy look on his face. Done, Aragorn lay back down and with a smile, Boromir opened his arms to invite him in for another embrace. Aragorn eagerly returned to his embrace, enjoying the feel of his lover’s arms around him and his warm body close to his. Boromir reached over and pulled a blanket over them.

For some time they simply enjoyed the feel of each other and the sounds of their heartbeats and breathing as they started to slow down. “I need to get attacked more often if it means attention such as this,” Boromir teased sleepily, breaking the silence. He had one hand around Aragorn’s waist as the King lay with his head on his chest, listening to his now steady heartbeat. With his other hand he stroked Aragorn’s hair tenderly, enjoying the afterglow of their lovemaking.

“Forego the attack part… I love to please you,” Aragorn said happily, finding sleep trying to claim him as well. Overwhelmed by emotions, he captured the hand that had been stroking his hair and took it to his lips and kissed it tenderly.

Boromir sighed happily and let his hand rest within Aragorn’s on the bed beside them. He drew the blanket closer around them before he resumed his one armed embrace on his lover. “Love you,” Boromir mumbled as he kissed the top of Aragorn’s head and felt himself drift off to sleep with a content smile on his lips. Growing up, he would never have guessed he would find such peace and happiness as he had found with Aragorn. Yet he had, and the miracle of it never ceased to amaze him.

Aragorn’s free hand drew patterns on Boromir’s chest before he let the hand rest on his lover’s torso. He smiled as he listened to Boromir’s calm and steady heartbeat as it echoed in his ear, enjoying the feel of his warm chest against his skin. “I love you, Boromir of Gondor. Do not ever leave me,” Aragorn whispered before he too drifted off to sleep, Boromir’s heartbeat a sweet lullaby in his ear, a smile of happiness playing around his lips. Boromir’s love was still a miracle to him and he was sure it would always remain as such. He could imagine no other way, no other outcome, where he would have been as happy as he was today.

The lovers slept peacefully, smiles of wonder and happiness staying on their lips till daybreak. Boromir’s hand stayed inside Aragorn’s all through the night; inseparable even in sleep.


	32. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All stories must come to an end....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to Bast for helping me improve this novel with her kind suggestions as well as doing the layout [for the printed zine] and so much more. Many thanks also to my wonderful betas, Annie Booker and Lyn. Also great thanks to my artists (Toshihiko Mizushima) and Jenn Miller for kind encouragement from start to finish. All of you are the ones who have made this zine possible.  
> Thanks to anyone who reads this; you’ve made it all worth it.  
> Please note that you’re reading the slash version of this novel. This version is my personal favourite but there is also a gen/het version available with canon pairings (A/A and F/E) you can read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22834402  
> A few notes on this story; the quick romance of Faramir and Eowyn was inspired by the books more than the movies as were Faramir’s gentle ways. The equally quick acceptance by Boromir of Aragorn’s love after facing death and danger was also inspired by the quick romance in the novels between Faramir and Eowyn, as well as me having read that Tolkien believed romance bloomed faster when developed under duress; a likely assumption, I would think. I have extended this assumption to include brotherly love as well, hence the quick bond between Legolas and Aragorn. Revealing Boromir’s love for Aragorn so late in the novel was of course also a plot device; if both of them knew from the start they wanted to become lovers there would be no suspense. The whole concept of a warriors’ bond, an oath between male Elven lovers, is of course my own creation. I first played with the idea in my X-men/LOTR novel ‘Fellowship Of Heroes’ (more on this below). Boromir is a character that greatly fascinates me, but as this novel progressed I discovered he was also a character best described through others. Furthermore, I felt Faramir and Aragorn were the key people who needed to grow during the cause of this novel. As I mentioned this novel has been inspired by three main things; the courts of Europe during the Middle Ages and two ‘what if’ scenarios; what if Aragorn had been raised with Boromir and Faramir and what if Faramir had joined the Fellowship instead of Boromir. The influences I draw from the courts of the Middle Ages are mainly seen in the Steward’s child raising tactics and in the behaviour of the court (a King’s power, the nobles’ scheming for power and a King’s right to take a morganatic wife are examples). The brief mention of self-mutilation was inspired by the way some priests in the Middle Ages would physically punish themselves if they felt they had failed in some way. It is, of course, also used in acknowledgement of the deep psychological scars a childhood as harsh as Boromir’s and Faramir’s would leave. Aragorn and his parents represented a more ‘modern’ view on family though, I assume, such loving relations wherein even boys/men could express their emotions openly could also have happened in the Middle Ages. I just needed the contrast. I chose to use the Elves and Faramir as positive and gentle opposites to the war and the darkness it brought. I furthermore chose to enhance the mystical connection in Faramir’s character to make the changes I wanted. I am aware Faramir got rather bruised in this novel; however the trials I put him through never changed him but only enhanced his positive characteristics. As mentioned, Faramir’s thoroughly positive being was inspired by the novels, and an interview wherein Tolkien claimed of all the characters Faramir was most like him. I would like to send warm hugs and much love to Carolyn Golledge who, with her amazing Han Solo stories, got me hooked on the whole ‘hurting characters I love’ thing. I believe Faramir from this novel can certainly join those ranks.  
> I chose the rather sad epilogue as a way to get out of the romance, magic and court life I had put myself, and hopefully the reader, into. Yet I left hope, at least that was my intention.  
> If you liked this story, you might enjoy my other fan novels, for example a LOTR/X-men crossover story titled “Fellowship Of Heroes” [you can read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22828753] which many have told me is my best fan work yet. The novel follows Logan, Rogue, Storm and Cyclops of the X-men as they are magically brought to Middle Earth during the forming of the Fellowship.

## Epilogue

Aragorn ruled as King of Gondor for many years and the land prospered. Alliances were formed to Rohan and the Elven Kingdoms. Gondor’s defences and army became one of the greatest in all of Middle Earth. Minas Tirith became known for housing such fine guests as Gandalf, the four Hobbits who had played such a vital role in destroying the One Ring, Lord Elrond of Rivendell, Legolas of Mirkwood and his wife, Arwen, Faramir of Ithilien and his wife, Eowyn, Eomer of Rohan, Haldir of the Golden Wood and many others. Faramir and Eowyn lived happily together with their children in Ithilien. He was often in Minas Tirith to assist his brother or King as Minister of Interior, but lived with his family in his own palace, his happiness found in his family and bringing knowledge, progress and stability to Gondor.

Thanks to Boromir’s military cunning, Mordor was no longer a threat to anyone, and as a result, there was never another attack on Aragorn’s life. Boromir’s suspicions had been proved right; the nobleman Aragorn had reprimanded at Faramir’s engagement had indeed been behind the attempt on Boromir’s life. Aragorn had both him and the only surviving would -be assassin publicly executed as a warning to others. He confiscated the man’s riches, but in an act of mercy, left the wife and the man’s children the title and the family castle. The great amount of riches the crown had confiscated Aragorn gave to Myra as a reward for the children she had born him. As promised he dissolved their marriage, and she married for love not long after, a luxury she could now afford. She lived the rest of her life in the countryside in great splendour.

As the years passed, the resentment of Boromir’s position in the King’s heart faded and there were no further attempts on his life. The change was slow but thanks to changed laws, the King’s strong conviction, Boromir’s strength, and with more Elven influence in Gondorian culture, it came to pass. Through the years the love between Boromir and Aragorn never faded, merely grew. The hardships they faced at times, the battles they fought… nothing managed to break them. After many years together, when Aragorn’s children were grown and had children of their own, Boromir passed away. To Aragorn’s great sorrow, Boromir died before all of the nobles had fully accepted his position in their King’s life. First at his funeral did most of them finally do so, but by then it was too late. Aragorn buried his lover in the tomb of Kings. He remained King of Gondor for many years since, but everyone knew it was only duty that kept him from joining his lover in death. He should have been able to outlive all his mortal friends thanks to the longer life span his bloodline had given him. Yet a fever illness took him. He prepared his son to take over as King of Gondor and awaited death without fear or remorse. Fever high in his body, Aragorn walked to sit by the window in the King’s chambers, the chambers he had shared with Boromir for so many years. He opened the window and gazed out upon the stars, the same stars Boromir had seen before he had died. He had passed like this, his eyes frozen with an eager look echoing in them, awaiting in death to be returned to his lover’s embrace with a wishful smile played around his lips.

Elrond made sure his foster son’s last order was carried out, that Aragorn was buried beside Boromir, in one stone tomb, in one grave. Elrond had the lid of the tomb show the two men’s loyalty and love for and to each other, carving it into the stone; the King wearing his crown, his hands crossed over his chest, holding his sword between them. Boromir in his Steward robes lying beside him, the sceptre of the Steward in the hand facing away from Aragorn while his other hand rested softy on top of Aragorn’s, helping him hold the sword as he had helped ease Aragorn’s burden of Kingship all through his life.

The most frequent visitor to the grave of the King and his Steward was Faramir. He would look at Boromir’s lively statue in the palace and spent hours sitting by his grave, softly talking to him. Only Eowyn and their children kept him in this world. When his beloved wife died, he faded away and was buried by her side shortly thereafter. Legolas and Arwen would visit the graves of their friends many times. Legolas was deeply saddened by the death of his bond brother, yet he had always known this was the fate of all mortals. Elrond would visit often as well.

As time passed, the human Kingdoms began to forget the alliance and the promise of peace they had given the Elves. They began to forget the Elves and their ways. Human kingdoms fell to ruin, castles crumbled, and Aragorn’s dream of unity and peace throughout all of Middle Earth was destroyed by the very people he had fought to save. The sorrow of seeing his foster son’s vision die, killed by his own people, had Elrond leave Middle Earth. As the humans continued to forget, continued to wage war, more and more Elves left. Legolas and Arwen were the last Elves to leave. Before they left, they went to the grave of the man who had once been King of a kingdom that now no longer existed, and his Steward who had fought so hard against an enemy, Mordor, which now, thankfully, did not exist any longer either. The two lone Elves had known for some time they were the last remains of a dying time, a dying race and a lost era but Legolas in particular had not been able to go, always fascinated by mortal life. When he saw all there was left of the once great city of Kings were ruins being eaten up by the forest, he had almost regretted coming to see his bond brother one last time. Then Arwen had pointed to a spot where some ruins lay and they had walked there. Among trees and flowers, deer and sunshine… the grave of Aragorn and Boromir remained, hidden by leaves, protected by a few pieces of broken down walls. They could see the stars now and that had pleased Legolas. Aragorn had always loved the stars. Legolas had softly kissed Aragorn’s forehead on the stone lid engraved with his image on the coffin in farewell. With one last look at his mortal bond brother, he had left with Arwen and thus the last Elves had left Middle Earth.

Time passed, names changed, people changed, and much knowledge that should have been preserved was lost. Myth became legend until only a fairytale remained of what had happened so long ago, in a distant kingdom, in a far off land. It was said that a great King had brought peace and prosperity to his people. There were whispers of magic and wizards. A legend of this time remained; a legend of love created from hardship, sorrow and war. A legend of a kinship between the King and two brothers; three men who had become family in everything but blood. Legend has it, such peace and progress as what these three men had brought to their people and their neighbouring countries shall one day be recreated. One day.

It was said that no love ever had been or ever would be as strong as the love between a King and his Steward. Some even claim they can see them in the stars, reaching out across the heavens, their hands meeting in the second the moon kisses the earth goodnight.

Yet that is merely a romantic fable.

###  **_The End_**

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it please let me know by leaving a comment or kudos. It will mean a lot to me.


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